Young Emma
by iambbq
Summary: Emma prequel, opens with the night before Isabella and John's wedding...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

"_Emma_... "

She was hunching over the wooden fence, the only barrier between her and her favourite dairy cow Miss Emily, when she vaguely heard Miss Taylor calling out her name from a distance.

"_Emma_…"

She heard Miss Taylor's call again, but did not heed it.

"_Emma my dear…"_

As Miss Taylor's voice grew much closer, Emma quickly swiped her eyes with her sleeves and waved at Miss Emily with a long hay straw.

"There you are!" Only a few feet away, Miss Taylor sounded both kind and relieved.

As much as she loved Miss Taylor, Emma would not turn to look at her governess; her eyes fixated at the dairy cow, her hand wagging the hay straw pretending to be solely interested in getting the attention of her animal friend.

"I have been looking all over for you, Emma my dear!" Standing right beside her young charge, Miss Taylor said gently, lifting her hand to smooth Emma's long curls which had been blown into small disarray by the spring evening breeze.

"Oh… you were…" Emma said spiritlessly, would not lift her gaze off of the dairy cow.

"I should have known you were here, Emma!" Miss Taylor's voice was soft, her hand still stroking her young charge's tangled hair. "You always come here when you're feeling a little…"

"Oh, Miss Taylor," young Emma would not let her governess went on, she deliberately raised the volume of her voice, "have you noticed how Miss Emily's udder grew the last couple weeks, I think she might be having… you know…"

Miss Taylor noticed Emma's large hazel eyes trying to shine, they always did when she spoke with so much animation, but just now - only dullness came through Emma's eyes; she softly finished what she was saying, "…a little sad!"

Emma pretended she did not hear it, "Really, Miss Taylor, upon my word I know Miss Emily, no, Mrs. Emily, is… you know… in a family way!"

"Emma - Isabella has been asking for you!" Not that Miss Taylor did not hear what her young charge just said, she only knew her sweet Emma too well to fall into her distraction trap.

"Miss Taylor! You ought to agree with me, Miss Emily, I mean Mrs. Emily is blooming, can you not see?"

"Emma, my dear…" Miss Taylor laid a very gentle hand on Emma's arm, her voice was just as gentle, "Isabella has been looking for you… she has been waiting for you to return to the house for the past hour!"

"Why would she _care_?" Emma suddenly cried out in pain. Her eyes grew red and wet again.

"Emma my dear, of course Isabella cares!" Miss Taylor's voice went even gentler, "She cares about you more than anything in the world…"

"That is _not_ true! How could she care when she's getting married and removing to London the morrow!"

Emma dropped the hay straw from her small hand, threw herself into Miss Taylor's embrace and began sobbing loudly into her governess' chest.

Miss Taylor held young Emma tightly in her arms in the same way she used to when she first came to the Woodhouses and took little Emma under her charge - as little Emma often had nightmares dreaming of her mother being swallowed by big scary monsters, sweating and screaming violently for help in the middle of nights. Those nights, the nightmares, the sweating and the screaming had long been forgotten – but it wrenched her heart at this moment to see her dear charge so sad and distraught. She squeezed Emma in her motherly bosom tenderly and let her cried her young heart out, which, from her years of experience as Emma's governess, she knew was the best way to console this sweet child.

Her tears finally subsided, and her breathing almost returned to normal, Emma slowly removed her face from Miss Taylor's bosom, with her arms still clinging to her waist, she looked up at her governess longingly with her blurred hazel eyes.

"My dearest Emma,' Miss Taylor's hands tenderly cupping Emma's tear-streaked cheeks, "you're feeling upset because you dread being apart from Isabella… you know how much Isabella loves you, do you not?"

Emma could hardly remember what her mother's voice was like, but Miss Taylor's gentle voice, laced with the softness that was so much like what a mother used on her dearest child, always soothed Emma's spirit and drained whatever sadness she had out of her heart.

She wiped her wet eyes dry with the back of her hands and nodded.

"Miss Taylor," she said beseechingly, "why must Isabella remove to London? Can she not stay at Donwell Abbey and be close to Hartfield… to _me_?"

"My dearest Emma, Mr. John Knightley desires to become a barrister, which requires him to be in London in order to advance in his profession; as Isabella and he will wed the morrow, it's just natural that she removes to London with her husband."

"But she will be so far away and I will hardly see her!" Emma buried her face in Miss Taylor's embrace again and muttered softly, "I shall miss Isabella so much!"

"And Isabella will miss you just as much, my dearest Emma!"

"She _will_?"

"Of course she will! And London is only sixteen miles away, she will come back and visit you and your papa as often as she can – she promised you, did she not?" Miss Taylor lifted Emma's chin with her gentle hand, bestowing a reassuring smile on the confused child.

Emma nodded softly.

"The morrow is an important day for Isabella – it would mean so much to Isabella if we all are happy for her, for marrying such a wonderful man as Mr. John Knightley. Are you not happy for Isabella, my dearest Emma?"

Young Emma gathered up her courage and good sense to muster a brave smile and said, "Hum!" She nodded with so much conviction that brought a bright smile to Miss Taylor's face!

"That's my girl!" Miss Taylor gave Emma an enormous hug overflow with affection before grabbing her hand and urged, "Your father and Isabella have been worrying about you dreadfully! We must get back to the house before it gets dark."

* * *

The time it took to walk from the field to the house was all Emma needed to return to her lively self – needless to say that she could not have done it without the loving solace from the gentle Miss Taylor, who knew just every right word to say to smooth all the wrinkles in the tender heart of her young charge.

As soon as Emma came inside the house and assured her father that she did not catch cold being out in the field for so long, Isabella jumped to her feet and swept her little sister up to her chamber. In the twelve years of being Isabella's sister, Emma had never seen her sibling being this exuberant.

"Look what I put on your dress, my dearest Emma!"

Isabella held up Emma's white bridesmaid frock and glided her delicate fingers along the pretty pink laces on the hem.

"You did that for _me_, Isabella!" Emma exaggerated a gasp, which had such an effect on Isabella that she wrapped young Emma in her arms and cried, "I'm so glad you like it!"

Emma was in fact either too young, or had too little sense for fashion to appreciate the exquisiteness of the laces. But it did not escape her that instead of having the tailor who made her wedding gown to tend the task, Isabella wanted it to be special for her dear little sister and insisted on stitching the laces with her own hands. Emma took great care to show her sincere gratitude to Isabella for her beautiful labour of love.

"The morrow, you, my little sister, Emma Woodhouse will be the prettiest bridesmaid in all of Highbury!" Isabella, who adored her little sister, boasted indulgently.

Examining her childish image in front of the tall mirror, Emma burst into disbelieving laugher, "My dearest Isabella, pray let me tell you the truth - prettiest bridesmaid I shall not be… but me, your little sister with long lanky arms and legs, I dare say will be the most awkward looking bridesmaid in all of Highbury!"

"Do not be silly, my dearest Emma!" with an incredulous look on her pretty face, Isabella sat down on her bed and said earnestly, "You _know_ you will grow into the most beautiful and graceful lady like our own Mama - you are only too young to see it in yourself! Papa always says how much you are like our mother, and I remember how beautiful Mama was - I know you will be _just_ like her!"

Hanging on the wall in the Hartfield drawing-room was a portrait of her beautiful mother, Emma had often sat on the sofa admiring her mother in the stillness of the portrait and fancying her moving about the room receiving guests in her splendor and liveliness. She would be so proud to be liked her beautiful mother - but it was the idea of being liked her own mother that she was so fond of, _not_ the idea of being beautiful. Still looking at her own image in the mirror, Emma asked Isabella, "You really think I shall be just like Mama?"

"Without a doubt!" Isabella could not sound more certain.

That brought a happy smile on young Emma's face! But – young Emma reminded herself - tonight was not about _her_, it was about her dear sister getting married the next day; she must find out the answers to the burning questions in her chest. Emma turned away from the mirror, "Isabella… do you think you will be happy in London?"

Isabella gazed at her little sister and instantly she smiled brightly, "Of course, my dearest Emma! I am marrying the most wonderful man in the world; I shall be happy wherever Mr. John Knightley takes me!"

Emma sat down on Isabella's bed next to Isabella and twined her hands through her dear sister's arm.

"So…" she proceeded seriously, "you think… Mr. John Knightley will always be kind to you, will cherish you and love you for the rest of your life?"

Isabella knew in the depth of her heart how much her little sister's loved her, and how much young Emma wanted to be certain of her happiness. She laid her affectionate hands on Emma's shoulders and looked determinedly in her eyes, "Yes, Emma! I'm certain that Mr. John Knightley will always be kind to me, will cherish me and love me for the rest of his life!"

Young Emma cocked a suspicious brow and compressed her mouth into a line (an expression that she often observed in her grown up friend Mr. Knightley); she studied the truth in her sister's answers for a moment, and then said, with as much determination as Isabella did, "Good! And he'd better be - or he will have to answer to _me_!" She held up her small fist and made a bullying face that was far more hilarious than intimidating, and moved Isabella into hysterical giggles.

Disappointed by the opposite effect on Isabella from her antics, Emma caught a glimpse of her ridiculous expression in the mirror and burst into uncontrollable giggles herself! The lovely laughter of the two sisters filled the candlelit chamber, and when their happy tears came down their faces, together they dropped on their backs down on the bed!

Their laughers finally faded.

"Emma…" Isabella said gently, eyeing the ceiling above her bed.

"Yes, Isabella…"

"Will you be fine with Papa… I mean taking care of Papa on your own?" Isabella sounded concerned.

"Of course, Isabella!" Emma smiled and said lively, "Papa is happy when I am happy, and I am always happy! With Mr. Perry comes every other day, that ought to make Papa feels safe… and there's nothing in Papa's constitution that Serle's gruel could not make better. There is absolutely nothing here at Hartfield for you to worry about!" Then she teased saucily, "You just worry about being in love with _your_ Mr. John Knightley, my _Mrs. Isabella-__Knightley-to-be-the-__morrow_!"

Isabella blushed prettily, as every bride-to-be always did!

Another quiet moment later, "Emma…" Isabella said softly.

"Yes, Isabella…"

"Thank you for convincing Papa to accept Mr. John Knightley's offer for my hand! I would not have known what to do if Papa insisted on his refusal…" The thought of not being able to marry John still rattled Isabella's delicate soul.

"You are very welcome, Isabella! It was not so difficult to convince Papa, you know… as soon as I told him that you were sleep walking at night to Donwell Abbey, he fretted that you might catch cold, trip over some rocks on the road and fall on your head and _die_… he changed his mind right away!" Emma giggled triumphantly.

"Only _you_ could conjure up such a horrible lie to Papa!" Isabella was sorry for having to deceive her father, but apparently not sorry enough to conceal the ecstatic smile that came from the thought of marrying John in less than twelve hours time.

"_Yes, yes, yes_…" Her hazel eyes sparkled, young Emma said saucily, "only _I_ could conjure up such a _horrible_ thing to say to Papa – but it was not so much a lie! The two nights after Papa refused John's proposal, you were pacing up and down your chamber all night long crying your eyes out! I thought any minute you would run away to Donwell Abbey and eloped with _your_ Mr. John Knightley - you might indeed trip over a rock and fall on your head on your way… I only embellished what _might_ happen a little so that Papa would change his mind!" She proudly congratulated herself again, laid on her hands behind her neck, gazing at the ceiling and basking in her own ingenuity!

"Emma…" Isabella said softly again.

"Now what, silly goose?" Young Emma wondered what came over her older sister who was overjoyed only moments ago had now become so melancholy all of the sudden.

"Will you be fine in charge of Hartfield? I know you are far cleverer than me… but my dearest Emma, you are only _twelve_! I truly regret leaving you with such a grown up responsibility!"

Emma pushed herself up on an elbow and rolled her eyes, "Don't you worry, Isabella! Taking care of Hartfield is not difficult at all - with the generous income that we have, it is easy to manage all our expenses. Miss Taylor had taught me all the mathematics I need to make this a _breeze_! Since I already know all the workings at Hartfield for ages, I am certain that I shall be a _fine_ Mistress of Hartfield indeed! Besides, Miss Taylor will always be here when I need help!"

Isabella also pushed herself up on her elbow, "But - Miss Taylor will not always be here at Hartfield, Emma my dear!"

"Of course she will, Isabella!" _Emma thought what a ridiculous thing that Isabella had just said!_

"Well… when you are all grown, you will no longer need a governess… Miss Taylor will have to leave Hartfield!"

Instantly Emma sprung straight up sitting in bed, "Miss Taylor – _leaving Hartfield_!" The idea shocked young Emma beyond belief!

"Yes, Emma, Miss Taylor will have to leave Hartfield, all governesses do when their charges grow up!"

"But… I will miss her _so_ much!" Emma was now almost in tears, "And… what will become of Miss Taylor after she leaves? Hartfield has been her home for _so_ long!"

The image of Miss Bates suddenly appeared in young Emma's mind - an old maid with endless but empty chatters, with no beauty or wit to recommend her, day in and day out longing pathetically for the posts from her faraway niece only to find out how many classics she had read and how many Mozart and Clementi piano pieces she had come to master in a week!

"_Good_ _Heavens_!" Emma screamed with pain in her voice, "Miss Taylor will be old, sad, lonely, and silly!"

"Not if she settles in a home of her own and a husband who loves her!" Isabella interpolated.

"A home of her own… and a husband who loves her?" This all sounded too foreign to Emma.

"Well, look at me, Emma my dear, I will be marrying the most wonderful gentleman and be the happiest woman on earth!"

"Miss Taylor… _married_!" The idea never crossed Emma's mind.

"Will you not wish Miss Taylor to be happy?"

First it was Isabella, and then it would be Miss Taylor - no wonder her father said marriage was a sorry business indeed! The idea of losing Miss Taylor was as shocking as the idea of losing Isabella to John Knightley at first, but Emma's immense love for her family - and Miss Taylor was like family to her in every sense - always put their happiness ahead of her own!

Emma thought deeply for a moment and made up her mind, "Of course I wish Miss Taylor to be happy… I want her to be as happy as _you_, Isabella!"

"Then you would wish her married someday?"

"Yes! Miss Taylor _must_ marry someday!" Young Emma said with absolute certainty.

Daydreaming of Miss Taylor's wedding day - she would put on her pretty wedding gown, just like the one Isabella had hanging in her dressing-room, though she might be an older bride, she would be lovely! _But_ - Who would be the groom? In one churn of her quick and juvenile mind, Emma had resolved that before Miss Taylor would leave Hartfield, she must ensure her happiness! - _Yes_ - She would take on the charge of searching for the perfect groom for her Miss Taylor!

"And what about you, my dearest Emma?" Emma's groom-seeking resolution for Miss Taylor was interrupted.

"What about me?" Emma was bewildered.

Isabella sat up on the bed and looked Emma in the eyes earnestly, "Yes, _you_, my dearest little sister!"

"What about me?" Emma asked again, looking lost.

"You will wish to marry when you grow up, will you not?"

"_Me_!" Emma astounded.

"Emma my dear, this is what all grown women do – settling in a home with a husband of her own! Fortunately in our case we could choose to marry for love instead of dowry; my only wish for you, my dearest Emma, is that you would find a perfect gentleman like my Mr. John Knightley… which I'm afraid might only be a wish…"

"Me – _married_!" Emma was beyond astonished at the notion! "Why would I _ever_ want to marry, Isabella? Who will be taking care of _Papa_… and _Hartfield_?"

"But you must wish it, Emma my dear, that's what every woman does!"

This conversation had gone too far! Much as young Emma loved her dear sister, she thought Isabella had gone matrimony-mad! She was sure that nothing could ever entice her to marry and to leave her Papa - she would be happy to live at Hartfield with her Papa for the rest of their lives!

"_NO_!" Emma cried out, "Not me! You and Miss Taylor could marry off all you want, but I shall never marry… never leave Hartfield… never leave Papa!"

Emma shook her head severely and covered her ears with her hands, "Pray Isabella! I wish we would speak no more of matrimony!"

"I am so sorry, my dearest Emma!" Isabella panicked, regretting the distress she had caused her little sister, "we could talk of anything… anything you wish, my darling!"

Slowly Emma removed her hands from her ears, took a deep breath, and thought for a moment.

"May I sleep in your bed with you tonight, Isabella? We could chat about other things all night long just like we used to!" Emma asked softly, her pleading eyes penetrating her sister's heart.

"Of course, Emma, it will be just like old times!" Isabella snuggled her little sister in her arms, pressing her own face on top of Emma's head and said softly to her, "I shall miss you so much, Emma!"

"I shall miss you even more, Isabella!" Emma whispered into Isabella's bosom, drenching in the love of her dearest and only sister!

* * *

**A/N: **You must be wondering where I'm going with this. :-) I want to explore a little the different relationships and love that, I think, were implied in the novel. This is to be a very short story, I have only three chapters planned for now. The setting, as you already know, is the eve and the day of Isabella and John's wedding. I would love to know what you think! :-)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

"George…" Peeping from behind the ajar library door, John asked lowly, "May I come in?"

A little startled by his younger brother's voice, George looked up from his heap of paperwork and smiled, "Since when the formality, John! You never even bothered to knock before, let alone asked!"

John stood up straight to step into the library, which was lit softly by the glow of the small fire burning in the hearth. The fire was hardly enough to warm the large library in this spring evening, but the sight of his older brother sitting behind the writing desk warmed his heart in a way that even a large fire in the hearth could not.

Rubbing the back of his neck, John smiled sheepishly, "It's never too late, is it not?"

George welcomed his younger brother's company, particularly on the eve of his brother's wedding day. He watched John slowly walking into the library, and a flash of an old image suddenly arose in front of his eyes – _he was barely nineteen and John was fifteen… it was late at night, just like now, their father was very ill, the apothecary had said that it would be any day before his suffering would end; George was sitting in the library alone with his head in his hands when John walked in quietly and sat down next to him. The two brothers, grieving the imminent loss of their father silently, sat there keeping each other company until the dawn came…_

The vision went away as quickly as it came, George blinked his eyes, took a small breath and said, "No, it is never too late, John!" He smiled warmly at his brother, "But it is not necessary – you know there is no need for formality between us!"

John smiled gratefully; he knew he would miss this familiar warmth – the same comforting warmth that he always felt whenever he was in the presence of his older brother, whom he had looked up to all his life as the epitome of everything a man should be – a man of principle, honour, and sense; a man who was kind, loyal, chivalry, and generous.

"All ready for the morrow?" George asked.

A small nod from John, "Yes, all ready… our trunks are all strapped to the carriage." replying in a subdued voice.

George nodded with a soft smile, his eyes casted down momentarily.

A comfortable silence came between the two brothers.

"I cannot believe I am leaving Donwell again…" John was the first to break the silence, "it feels like I was only back yesterday!"

"It does feel like that, does it not?" George replied, with a hint of helplessness, "Time does have this amazing effect on us human!"

Flashes of their past came to George again, this time it was their childhood. His eyes sparkled as he reminisced years past, "I still remember the times when we used to catch frogs in the ponds," he smiled fondly, 'why we ever thought that we could catch those slippery little fellows with our bare hands, I still have no idea… but I do know that being the sons of the prominent Knightley family had no bearing on the intelligence of seven and three year-old boys!"

"Oh," John perked, "but you have to admit that we grew wiser when we invented that clever contraption and captured that hedgehog… what did we call him?"

"Mr. Pinbottom!"

"Yes, Mr. Pinbottom… and how old were we?"

"We were eleven and seven, John, how could you forget? It was the day of your seventh birthday. The idea of catching a hedgehog suddenly came into your head when you were eating cake! Lord knows where that came from… but it sure got us in trouble!"

"Oh… yes… " John's eyes twinkled, "now I remember!"

"And you said we grew wiser?" George chuckled, "Apparently not wise enough! We still used our bare hands to reach for the hedgehog in our trap and got pricked badly!"

John laughed, "_Real_ badly! Mother almost fainted when she saw our bloody hands!"

George laughed!

"And do you remember the time when I hid the ledger from William Larkins?" John's eyes were dancing with mischief.

George's mouth quirked, he said, "Now that was mean, John! The account book was more important than _life_ to William Larkins; he thought he had misplaced it at first and spent half a day looking for it, and when he could not find it, he was sure he had lost it and his heart almost stopped!"

"Well… " John chuckling, "who could blame me when he kept you all to himself and would not let you play with me for an entire day?"

"He was giving me farming lessons, John!"

John rolled his eyes and grinned wickedly, "Do you remember how he _stammm…merrr…ed… wwwhennn… faa…therrr asked himmm wwwh…errre the aaa…c__ounn__nt bookkk w__aaasss_?"

John's antics and the once-in-a-life-time image of a panicked William Larkins had the two brothers burst out laughing!

And when the laugher finally subsided, a long pause settled between the two brothers once again.

"George…" John spoke first again, tentatively.

George wondered why the grave look on his brother's face.

"I am sorry for leaving Donwell again!" John blurted, finally getting it out of his chest. But what he said surprised George.

"Why, John? Why would you feel sorry for leaving Donwell?"

"What I meant…" John took a deep breath, "what I meant… is that I am sorry for leaving you again… and leaving the responsibility of Donwell all to you!"

George walked from behind the desk and gestured John to sit on one of the armchairs by the fire while he took the other.

"John," Looking at his brother, George's voice was kind and sincere, "there is no need to feel sorry for me or Donwell! Donwell has always been the responsibility of the firstborn son in our family; you were never expected to take care of it."

"But you had always taken care of me, George, especially since Father passed away, you also took care of Mother, and you never just rely on William Larkins to run Donwell… I feel like I am walking out on you again!" John confessed regretfully.

"You had never walked out on me, John! I was always proud of you for pursuing your calling in the law, the several years you spent at Cambridge was exactly what you needed! You know that, do you not?"

"But… now that I am a lawyer, while I could have stayed in Surrey and assist you when you need me, I am leaving you for London instead!" John's head was in his hands.

"John, have we not talked this over months ago?" George recalled how discontented his brother was after being a lawyer in Surrey for only a year; he was the one who encouraged John to consider the opportunities in town.

"You cannot be happy with just being a country lawyer sorting out land titles, drawing up building leases, organizing the lending of money or administrating trusts… you are far too intelligent and capable of a man to settle for these! I know it has always been your aspiration to practice law in courts, and to try cases – I am not about to let anything to stop you from pursuing your dream!" George said determinedly.

Deep down in John's heart, he knew George was right – as guilty as he felt for leaving his brother, he knew he would not be content with being a country lawyer even when this profession could provide a comfortable living for him and Isabella.

"Besides," George continued, "to have William Larkins, a stubborn minded bailiff whose bluntness requires me to smooth things amongst the tenants and the staffs every so often is enough for me," with much laughing and teasing in his eyes, "I certainly do not need my hard-headed brother to tell me how to negotiate leases with tenants and farmers or manage the assets of our estate!"

Though their personalities were as different as night and day, their stubbornness was the one trait that the two brothers both shared, John knew that there was nothing he could say or do to change his brother's mind, and he respected George even more for his unwavering support. At last he found himself appeased with his decision and willing to free himself from the guilt that had been eating him up for months.

John heaved a deep breath and asked in his sincerity, "Will you promise me that you will let me know if you ever need help, George?"

"You have my words, John!" George stood up from the armchair, reaching his hand for John's. John stood on his feet immediately and the two brothers sealed their words with a gentlemen handshake, a handshake that was not unlike any other simple handshake - but the difference was in the deep brotherly affection hidden behind it.

When their hands broke apart, George asked warmly, "Nervous about the morrow?"

John sighed with a helpless nod!

"I never thought that I would be nervous! Do you think me weak, George - a grown man feeling nervous of getting married?"

"Why would I think you weak, John? Getting married is an important milestone in a man's life; it is only natural that you should feel a little nervous." George laid a warm pat on John's back and gestured him to sit again.

Swiping his sweaty palms on his breeches, John sighed, "You know how I dislike unnecessary obligations, George. Our marriage is a private matter between Isabella and I, why must we have a ceremony and invite others to come? Isabella and I should have eloped!"

George frowned, "Now John, this is unbecoming of you! Elopement would have been a disgrace to both the Knightley and Woodhouse families. I agree that your marriage is between you and Isabella, which is why the wedding ceremony will only consist of our families and several close friends. If you would stop feeling your own wedding an obligation, you might not be so anxious!

"Besides, I am sure Isabella must be looking forward to it immensely… consider that you are doing this for Isabella, perhaps you would feel better about it."

"You're right, George, as you always are!" His creased brows relaxed, John spoke in a much lighter tone, and the thought of his betrothed even brought a smile on his face. "I have never seen Isabella so excited before! Two weeks after her father gave us his blessings, she already had everything planned. She wants our wedding to be perfect and that everyone happy for us – especially her father and sister, you know!"

"Speaking of Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, I have not a chance to call on them since I returned from Rochester, are they well?"

John looked agitated, "If only Mr. Woodhouse would stop his '_poor_ Isabella' this, '_poor_ Isabella' that, I would actually believe that he might be happy for us! But he seems to think I am the worst man in the world for taking Isabella away to London. You should see the grave look he has whenever he sees me… I cannot wait for the morrow to be over so that I could actually get away from this old man!"

"John," George reproached, "you well know that Mr. Woodhouse is against changes of all natures; it is to be expected that he should lament the removal of his daughter, you must respect him for loving his daughter (_who_ will be your wife in only few hours) so very much that he could not bear to part with her! Give him some time and he will come to accept the marriage."

"_Some time_?" John snickered, "You mean _eternity_!"

George stifled his laugh.

"What about Emma? I reckon that at least she would be happy for you and Isabella."

"That ferocious little chit!" John exasperated.

"What did she do to you this time?" George's eyes sparkled, hiding his mirth from John.

"She blamed me for taking Isabella away from her and threatened to convince her father to change his mind on his acceptance to my offer to Isabella! She is just as bad as her father…oh no, no, no – she is _worse_ than her father!" John's face darkened.

George chuckled!

"Well," George said, still chuckling, "since Emma did convince Mr. Woodhouse to accept your offer to Isabella, I am sure she could easily convince him to change his mind;" he went on teasingly, "I'm afraid she does have the power over you, John - you are obliged to her!"

"That's just it, George! I swear that she was put on this earth to torture me! For goodness sake, I graduated top of class at Cambridge, am a practicing attorney and an aspired barrister… no one would believe that a twelve year old girl could have so much power over me… she must be a witch in a child's body!

"You will not believe what she did to me! She made me carry her basket and call her '_your highness my dear Miss Woodhouse'_ for an entire day; not only _that_, I had to do it in front of her father, Miss Taylor, Miss Bates, Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Goddard and everyone in Highbury! Even Mrs. Hodges, our own Mrs. Hodges, and William Larkins, the man who never laughed, were laughing at me!"

George's chuckles had now turned into a hearty laugh, which to John's extreme annoyance had served to proof his point exactly!

"Laugh all you want, but Emma is my worst enemy!"

"Now now, be charitable John! Emma might be a little spoiled, but she is remarkably good-natured, she has many good qualities that are rare in young girls her age! She has incredible patience for her father, which I would be grateful if you even had a tenth of what she has; she loves Isabella so much to put her happiness ahead of her own to convince her father to accept your offer, for you know, you _are _taking her only sister away from her; and she's learnt her duties to the poor at a very young age, though she could be more tolerant with Miss Bates, she does have a kind heart for those in needs."

"You have always been partial to Emma, George! But even _you_ have to admit that she does have a wicked mind!" John protested.

"Well, Emma has a mind and wits well beyond her years, and she does use them to her advantage sometimes, which is all the more important – that _you_ being twelve years her senior, and will be her brother in only few hours, should use your ability to draw her good qualities out, instead of falling for her mischievous pranks!"

John rolled his eyes, "I give up, George! When it comes to Emma, you are always taking her side!"

Though George did not agree entirely what John said, he could not deny that he did often take Emma's side – he would not do it openly in front of her though, how else would she learn if everyone indulged her (and everyone except he and his brother did indulge her!) and let her wrapped them around her thumb! But in her absence, for her playful antics and lively conversations, her endless imaginative whims and fancies, her harmless clever pranks and tricks, which endeared him but annoyed his brother, he would defend her unreservedly, as ultimately young Emma was as good-natured and kind hearted as she was mischievous and spoiled!

Instead of rebutting, George simply smiled and dropped the matter graciously.

John decided to pursue another subject that was very near to his heart.

"George…"

"Yes, John."

"Have you thought of marriage yourself?"

George was taken aback by the sudden inquiry! He stared blankly at John.

"As I will be married the morrow and starting a new life in London… don't you think it is time for you to consider a family of your own?"

George blinked his eyes and searched for an answer, but all he could think of was, "Frankly, I have never given a thought to this before!"

"At eight and twenty, with your accomplishments and establishment, you have every right to think of marriage, George!"

George continued to listen in silence.

"I know you have been completely occupied ever since Father passed away. You spent the past nine years pursuing your education, taking care of Mother and me, and running Donwell, you never have time to think of your own life…" John sighed.

"But after the morrow, you will be on your own; it will be you and Donwell..." John sneaked in a mischievous grin, "or it will be you and Donwell, and _William Larkins_, George!" Reverting back to his seriousness immediately, "I wish you would consider finding yourself a wife soon!"

George grinned, "John, you only wish me to take a wife so that you would not feel guilty for removing to London… I quite see through your scheme, my brother!"

"Perhaps that is partly true – I sure would feel a whole lot better knowing that you have a wife to take care of you here while I am in London. But now that I am on the verge of tasting marriage and family myself, I can honestly say that I would recommend it to any man, especially my own brother!"

"John, I thank you for your concerns, but I will be fine here at Donwell, even with William Larkins! Remember you were at Cambridge for four years and I did just fine? No need to worry about me, John!"

"Surely, George, you are not planning to spend the rest of your life being a bachelor, are you? Have you ever met a lady that you were interested, even remotely?"

George was thoughtful. "Well, I had met couple ladies in the past that I thought _quite_ interesting, but those were youthful affection that faded away as quickly as they came. While I cannot say that I plan on remaining a bachelor for the rest of my life, I do not see the change necessary as long as I am happy with the way things are and have not met a woman that I could fall in love with."

"So… you don't think you will be lonely after I am gone?"

"Certainly not! I have Donwell to run, my tenants to take care of, and my friends to visit!"

"Friends? You mean _Mr. Woodhouse_ and _Emma_!" John teased ruthlessly, grasping every opportunity to mock his brother before his removal to London.

"No…" George coloured, "I have other friends, too!" feeling a bit irritated by his brother's teasing. "But for your record - I do enjoy Mr. Woodhouse and Emma's company!" George declared.

"You amaze me, George!" John snorted, "I know there is not a kinder man than Mr. Woodhouse in Highbury, and Emma is always amusing… but Mr. Woodhouse is an _old man_ and Emma is a _child_, how could anyone _ever_ find enjoyment in their company?"

"Perhaps _you_ cannot, John – but _I_ can!" George could feel himself getting warm.

"Fine! Once Isabella and I are settled down in London we would look for a wife that suits you!" John said, taking no heed to hide his frustration.

"You will surely _not_! If I ever wish to look for a wife, I will manage it myself! Thank you very much!" Now George was feeling downright hot!

"Oh yeah? Like _that_ will _ever_ happen!" John loosened his cravat impatiently and scowled at the dim fire in the hearth, "Good grief, this fire is making this place far too hot!"

"No, John, it is not the fire that's making this place hot! It is this _ridiculous_ conversation that's making you _insufferable_!" George exasperated.

"Oh _really_! Why is this conversation so _ridiculous_? And why am I so _insufferable_? Can't a younger brother worry about his older brother getting old and lonely?" John retorted.

"Well! In case you haven't noticed," George countered, "the life of _this_ older brother belongs to _this_ older brother, and it just happens that _this_ older brother likes his life, my _younger_ brother!"

"_Fine_! I will butt out and leave your life all to yourself… and let you eat gruel with Mr. Woodhouse and marry the ferocious Emma when she grows up! Now – _don't_ say that I never forewarn you, my _older_ brother!" John finally stopped and the whole library went dead silent.

The two brothers stared at each other for a long moment; then the unexpected happened…

A series of magnificent laughers roared the entire library for a good minute!

"I suppose…" Still laughing energetically, John rubbed his hot face sheepishly, "this is why I am removing to London, huh?"

George caught his breath from laughing too hard, "I cannot argue _that _with you!" He put his arm around his brother's shoulders, "Come, John, it is time to retire. You have an important day ahead of you!"

The two of them walked out of the library side by side into the dim hallway and up the grand staircase.

"I am sorry about what I said, George… you know… about you eating gruel with Mr. Woodhouse and marrying Emma!"

"Yeah! Where _that_ came from John? That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life!"

There – the two Knightley brothers burst into laughter again, the same jovial laughter that they had shared in their childhood, their youth and even as grown men. As John embarked on his new life the morrow, uncertainties were bound his way, but one thing that both John and George were certain beyond the shadow of a doubt – that their brotherly affection would carry them through life no matter what uncertainties life would bring!

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for reading! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **ChocolateIsMyDrug, thank you for your faithful review in every chapter in every story that I have written since ten months ago! They may be nothing to you, but they meant very much to me! Same for Slytherinsal, since you found my story few months back, you have reviewed every chapter I've written, thank you!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

* * *

It had been over two hours since Emma woke up in Isabella's bed early in the morning. Sitting with her legs crossed on her sister's bed, Emma's young head twirled as she watched Isabella (with the assistance of Miss Taylor and their maid Kate) in the whirlwind of changing into her wedding gown, applying extraordinary care to her toilette, fussing over her hair for over an hour, pacing up and down her chamber biting her lips, and laughing in one moment just to be in tears the next! To young Emma's bewilderment, this almost felt too torturous of a process for a supposedly joyous event. She was pleasantly relieved when it came her turn to change that the dressing, the hair and the toilette seemed to be no more than the usual affair, with the exception that she should take extraordinary care with her pretty bridesmaid frock, particularly for the exquisite laces that Isabella put on it, Emma would be very mad at herself if she should soil this very special dress.

While Miss Taylor and Kate hurried to put the finishing touches on the bride, Emma bobbed herself downstairs to greet her Papa in the dining-room. The dread of giving away his daughter had marred her Papa's interest in the newspaper and even his appetite for gruel! He kept his gaze at the dining-room entry waiting gravely for his dear Isabella to descend. As young Emma could neither help her Papa nor her hunger, she proceeded to treat herself with a glassful of fresh milk and a nice piece of warm toast spread with a generous portion of preserves; just as she stuffed herself with a mouthful of toast, she saw Isabella coming in.

Emma's jaw dropped – her dearest sister was as pretty as an angel - nay - Isabella was prettier than any angel she had ever imagined!

And the depressed Mr. Woodhouse, stunned by the beauty of his oldest daughter, did not move for a long time. Once his initial shock wore off, he slowly stood up on his feet as tears began to fall on his cheek. The affectionate father and his loving daughter slowly walked toward each other and fell into each other's embrace.

"My beautiful Isabella!" Mr. Woodhouse pressed a long kiss on his beloved daughter's forehead.

"Papa!" With tears streaming down her face, Isabella lifted her father's hand to her lips and pressed on it the most affectionate kiss - a kiss that not only expressed her deep love for her father but also her infinite gratitude to him for raising and loving her for over nineteen years!

With strength that he did not even know he had, Mr. Woodhouse exerted himself to curb his tears and finally managed to be barely composed; he took out his handkerchief with a trembling hand to wipe the tears on his beloved daughter's face. In a broken voice filled with tenderest affection, the father bided his daughter, "No tears my child… no tears… it will ruin your beautiful face!"

"Thank you… Papa!" Isabella kissed her father's hand again. Sorrows and joy all mingled in the tears and smiles on both their faces.

"Papa has something for you, my dear Isabella…" Mr. Woodhouse reached into his pocket and produced a small velvet box, "open it!" His fragile wrinkly face cracked a tender smile bidding his daughter to go ahead.

Isabella took the box and slowly lifted up the lid, "Oh, Papa!" She looked incredulously at her father.

The doting father's eyes twinkled, gratified by his daughter's astounded expression. "This was your mother's favourite ruby ring. She had always meant it as a wedding gift for you since you were born! Put it on, see how it fits."

It fitted perfectly on Isabella's finger. "Thank you, my dear Papa!" Tears began to fall from Isabella's eyes again.

"Your mother would have been so proud of you, my dear Isabella!" Mr. Woodhouse clasped Isabella's hands into his and sighed, "Poor Isabella! How Papa wish you could stay at Hartfield…" he cleared the lump in his throat, "but one cannot help it when Mr. John Knightley must take you away!"

"_Papa_… _I_…" Isabella choked.

"My Poor Isabella… Papa will not blame you for removing to London… But you promised me that you would take excellent care of yourself and you will keep your promise, will you not?"

"I will, Papa, I will!"

"That is all Papa would ask of you, my dear Isabella!" The father and daughter fell into each other's arms once again.

Emma was completely engrossed by the touching scene of her father and sister when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She quickly swiped her wet eyes and turned; it was Miss Taylor with her gentle smile. Miss Taylor walked pass young Emma and said to the father and daughter kindly.

"Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella, the come has come, we must leave for church now."

* * *

Compared to the large crowd of well-wishers gathered outside the church, the ceremony inside was an intimate affair, with only the Woodhouse and Knightley families and several close friends, amongst those who had the privilege to witness the event were Mrs. and Miss Bates, Miss Taylor, three of Isabella's intimate friends, Mr. William Larkins, Mrs. Hodges, and two of John's close friends who grew up with him on the Donwell perish.

Once everyone seated and the wedding began, young Emma, putting forth her mightiest to stop her fidgets to stand reverently, began to survey the sanctuary curiously stealing glances at everyone. Her eyes first admired her beautiful sister, Isabella the bride, who looked so happy that even without as much as a halo over her head and a pair of wings on her back was practically floating midway in the air! And who could blame the ridiculously cheery grin on John the groom's face? What lucky man he was to be marrying her wonderful sister! Emma was pleased that John, whose ill temper could make him look like an ogre at times, was handsome enough to make a good match with her beautiful sister!

Then, there was her friend Mr. Knightley, the tall, graceful, and gentlemanly-in-everyway Mr. Knightley, the scrutinizing-her-every-move, catching-her-every-fault and love-calling-her-spoiled Mr. Knightley, who also happened to be the groom's brother and the groomsman, was dressed impeccably for the occasion; and when he did not look like he was about to lecture her, Emma thought, her friend was indeed a very handsome man - even more handsome and dashing than his lucky brother!

With half a mind listening to the priest's sermon and the other wishing it over soon, Emma almost giggled out loud when through the corners of her eyes she caught her Papa dozing away on the church pew! She thanked the Almighty for the very kind Miss Taylor, who was sitting dutifully next to her snoozing employer, had been nudging poor Papa with her gentle elbow whenever his head dipped a little too low, or poor Papa would have been on the floor by now!

And at last, her eyes landed on Miss Bates – who, for a brief thankful moment, had resigned to do the listening rather than the chattering, was, to Emma's amazement, presently mopping her eyes! The very good Miss Bates had indeed watched over the two Woodhouse girls since they were infants; she was a close friend of Mrs. Woodhouse, and remained a very good friend to Mr. Woodhouse and the Woodhouse family – but why the buckets of tears? Emma's knees began to wobble, her mouth started to twitch and her throat incredibly tickled, she could feel her giggles bursting out anytime! And to make matters worse, her eyes met Mr. Knightley's, he too had caught the sight of Miss Bates and shared the same amusement. But Emma had not the self control her grown up friend had, while he only laughed with his eyes, Emma's giggles burst! To cover up her giggles, Emma resorted to a coughing fit, which, to everyone's astonishment, put a dreadful halt to the wedding vows!

"…_to have and to hold from_…" The priest stopped abruptly.

Emma froze!

The whole church went silent - she could feel every pair of eyes staring at her, even the Lord Jesus and His twelve disciples on the wall!

She slowly unfroze herself, mustered a straight face, swallowed hard, then spoke up, "Pray, go on…" but none of the eyes moved!

She looked straight at the priest and said, in an even straighter face, "I am well, really… Pray go on!"

And she thanked heavens that the wedding resumed!

* * *

When the wedding was finally over, young Emma regretted that her impatience during the sermon had caused her to wish it over soon – for the time of Isabella's departure was coming too close! As her Papa was against parties of large sizes, John disliked all social obligations, and Mr. Knightley saw no point in hosting a wedding breakfast without the bride's family or the bride and the groom, the wedding breakfast was omitted. After greeting and thanking all the well-wishers outside the church, and a heart wrenching lingering farewell to see Isabella and John off on their journey, Mr. Woodhouse, Miss Taylor, and Emma took their carriage ride back to Hartfield.

No one spoke during the entire journey. Once home, Mr. Woodhouse sought his armchair by the fire to catch his second morning nap, Miss Taylor went to the kitchen to see to lunch being readied in a later than usual hour, and Young Emma went to the field for a walk by herself.

* * *

Her arms dangling over the wooden fence, and her chin resting on top of the rail, Emma's empty gaze rested on the dairy cow which, along with the other cows and sheep, was resting lazily on the quiet meadow. She heard a familiar footstep approaching from behind, but instead of turning around to greet her visitor, she kept staring at her animal friends.

She felt a friendly tap on her shoulder, without even turning to see who it was Emma greeted her visitor dully.

"Good morning, Mr. Knightley."

"How did you know it was me?" Mr. Knightley smiled down at young Emma as she turned to look up at him.

"Of course I knew it was you - I could recognize your footsteps." On any other occasions, Emma would have rolled her eyes and replied in her saucy ways, but this time her reply was plain.

"Ah! I see… I should have known." Mr. Knightley nodded to himself.

"And how did you know I was here?" Emma asked dryly.

"I knew you would be here because you always come here when you wish to be alone." replied Mr. Knightley.

"If you knew I wished to be alone, why did you come, Mr. Knightley?" Emma found her clever grown up friend quite contradicting himself.

Mr. Knightley smiled kindly at his young friend, "Just because you wish to be alone, does not mean that you _should_ be alone, Emma!"

Emma pouted, pondering upon Mr. Knightley's words – there was indeed an unspeakable comfort that she felt in the presence of her friend, but she would be stupid to admit it to him so easily!

"But, Mr. Knightley, I am not alone!" She lifted an eyebrow, tilted her head toward the direction of the cows.

"Humph!" His mouth twisted, "If you would rather speak to your animal friends, then I beg you a good day, Emma." He began to take his leave.

"Wait!" Emma reached out her hand hurriedly and took hold of Mr. Knightley's arm. "Well… it is more fun to speak to someone who could say more than just 'Moo'!" She confessed unwillingly.

Mr. Knightley gladly obliged Emma's request to stay; they both turned back to the wooden fence and leaned against it to watch her dairy cow friend.

"So how is Miss Emily today?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"Mrs. Isabel is very well today, she thanks you for asking!"

"Mrs. Isabel!" Puzzled, Mr. Knightley asked, "Since when did Miss Emily turn into Mrs. Isabel?"

"Today!" Emma said firmly.

"Humph – today!" Nodding slowly, Mr. Knightley looked serious, "Did she have a wedding, too?"

"Uh… yes… she did!" Emma's mind was getting busy.

"And how was the wedding?"

Emma was most pleased to see Mr. Knightley's genuine interest in her animal friend.

"It was splendid - everyone was in their Sunday best and everyone behaved charmingly!" Emma smiled contentedly.

"Is wedding for cows an intimate affair like the ones for human?" Mr. Knightley asked with great interest.

"Oh no!" Emma replied, shaking her juvenile head as she went on explaining.

"Miss Emily has far too many friends to have an intimate wedding! There were many well-wisher-cows of course, but there were also other creature friends who brought gifts and delicacies to share at the wedding breakfast - Mrs. Weaselbuzzly the badger brought a jug of golden honey, Spike and Spikier the hedgehog twins brought a basket of beautiful apples," she lowered her voice, "I think they might be taken from the Donwell orchard!" resuming to her animated tone, "Miss Molly Dirtdinger the mole cooked a steaming pot of earthworm stew with herbs and spinach," taking a deep breath of the imaginary smell, "oh you should have smelled the aroma from the stew, Mr. Knightley, the mouths of all the creatures were watering! Mr. Big Bushy Tail brought his squirrel family and a delicious acorn hazelnut cake decorated with fresh sprigs and colourful petals, and the clan of mice, which included fieldmice, hedgemice, dormice, and even churchmice, carried an enormous block of cheddar cheese on a wooden plank to the wedding!" her arms spread out wide to indicate the size of the enormous cheese. She continued to be animated and excited, "And that was not all, Mr. Knightley! Miss Emily's old friend Miss Roundtumtum, the water vole, and her betrothed Mr. Ottersquire, the gentleman otter, came all the way from the streams and brought a prized grayling as gift for Miss Emily and the groom… but, as you know Mr. Knightley, cows do not like fish, so Miss Roundtumtum and Mr. Ottersquire had to bring the grayling home!"

Mr. Knightley was wonderfully amused! In addition to his delightful smiles, he nodded and 'hum' in all the right places until he became curious, "May I ask who the lucky cow was?"

"Uh…" Emma grinned wickedly, "Mr. Ogre!"

"Mr. Ogre!" Shocked, Mr. Knightley winced, "What kind of name is that even for a cow?"

"You see, Mr. Ogre is not his real name, but as he has the worse temper amongst all the cows in the field, the other cows and I have secretly given him this name to match his temper. And in his absence, we all call him by his secret name!"

"And when in his presence, how would you call this Mr. Ogre cow?"

"Uh… uh… Mr. Jon… Jonathan, yes, his real name is Jonathan Night!"

Mr. Knightley almost burst into laughers. How he wished John was there to hear his secret name!

"I must say," Emma added, "the priest-cow could have mooed a little less - you see, the other cows and creatures, especially the younger ones were getting bored to their ears, couple of them even dozed off, can you believe it? However, all of them had a marvelous time and it was the most joyful event that they ever had the pleasure to attend!" Emma smiled satisfactorily.

"So, that was how Miss Emily turned into Mrs. Isabel – she had a wedding!"

"Precisely!"

Mr. Knightley rubbed his chin, "Now Emma, as Mr. Ogre received his name from his ill temper… how did Miss Emily receive the name Isabel?"

Emma stared at Mr. Knightley for a moment before she uttered, "I… I named her Isabel… _because_… _because_… " her smile faded, her eyes began to blur as the lump in her throat choked her voice.

Mr. Knightley moved a step closer to young Emma, his voice softened as he bent to speak to her, "Could it be because when you come to talk to Mrs. Isabel, it would feel like you are speaking with Isabella?"

Emma looked down and nodded, large tear drops began to drip out of her hazel eyes. She leaned gently on her grown up friend, the same way she had done many times in the past; and Mr. Knightley opened his arms to let the crying child resting her head on somewhere between his chest and waist. He gently hugged her shoulders to comfort her silently, just as he had comforted her ever since she was a little girl.

Though motherless since she was only four, by nature Emma was a happy child, and being the favourite of her indulgent father and all of Highbury, nothing ever vexed this precious child very much. But there were times when she had missed her mother, or when she had felt insufferably confined by her nervous father forbidding her to play with children beneath their station in the fear of her catching cold from the great outdoor or drafty and unwholesome households, even such a happy child had fallen into bouts of frustration and sadness. Mr. Knightley admired little Emma for never putting her frustrations and sadness on display in front of her father – he knew she loved her Papa too much to put him in distress. She had often hidden away to cope with her emotions as bravely as she could, at times even Miss Taylor could not uncover her hiding places. He would seek her out and stay with her to listen to her, she might make up farfetched reasons for her hiding away, she might go into her fantastic tales with whimsical characters, she might talk of the weather that she cared very little of, or the crops rotations that she pretended to know about, she would talk of everything else, but she would never talk of her sadness until he brought it up in the hopes of giving her comfort.

He noticed that young Emma had grown another inch taller since the last time he held her in his arms; his little friend was growing up faster than he realized! It would not be long before propriety would not allow him being this close to his friend. He would always be her friend though, and be there for her when she needed him.

He took out his handkerchief to wipe her tears.

"I am sorry, Mr. Knightley!" Emma said apologetically. She pulled herself away, swiped her wet eyes with the back of one hand and took his handkerchief with the other to wipe his tailcoat, which was wetted by her tears.

"It is no matter, Emma!" Mr. Knightley gently removed Emma's small hands from wiping his coat and placed them in his own hands. "I know you must be missing Isabella very much."

Emma sniffled and looked up at him softly, "I told myself that I would not cry at the wedding… I did not want to ruin Isabella's important day!"

"And I thought you did most excellently, Emma!" He smiled warmly at the red-eyed child.

"You really think so?" Mr. Knightley's rare approval lit up young Emma's eyes.

"Absolutely!" His reassuring smile lifted her spirit so much that her countenance was coming to live again.

It did not take long for the mischievous child to recover from her tears; she crossed her arms, lifted a playful eyebrow over her sparkling eyes and said saucily at her friend, "Mr. Knightley, you know… you were just as bad as me!"

"_Me_?" He was at a loss. "What did I do?"

A knowing grin came onto Emma's face, "You were laughing at Miss Bates at the wedding, Mr. Knightley!"

"Did I?" Mr. Knightley had a dumbfounded look on him as if he had not the faintest idea what Emma was speaking of.

"You could never fool me, Mr. Knightley! Granted you did not laugh out loud, but you _did _laugh with your _eyes_!" Emma smiled rascally at her grown up friend.

Mr. Knightley only grinned and said nothing.

"And _yo__u, _of all people," poking at his chest playfully, Emma said, "are the one who keeps lecturing me to be more tolerant for the very good Miss Bates!"

His grin disappeared, Mr. Knightley let out a long sigh.

"You are right, Emma! I should have set a better example for you…" He looked down at his shoes and shook his head at himself.

Emma frowned, she felt sorry – she did not mean to make her friend feel bad, she only wished to tease him a little!

"But" Mr. Knightley looked up with a childlike grin, "you must admit that it was a very amusing sight… I simply could not resist the buckets of tears!"

The reliving of Miss Bates' abundant tears and Emma's embarrassing moments at the wedding had both friends launched into jolly laughter, which livened up the sedated meadow so much that caught the attention of all the lazy cows and sheep, and ere long, Emma and Mr. Knightley began to hear harmonious 'moos' and 'baas' everywhere, even Mrs. Isabel was inspired to join them with her own rendition of Bach's 'Sheep May Safely Graze'!

The music of nature and the company of her dear friend had chased all her melancholy away, Emma looked up at her friend with her brilliant hazel eyes and asked him with sincerity that was truly beyond her years, "Mr. Knightley, will you miss John?"

Mr. Knightley looked down at Emma for a moment - he nodded.

"As much as I will miss Isabella?" Emma asked softly.

He nodded again.

"You could cry on my shoulder if you wish!" Emma said in her earnest, laying her small hand on his strong arm.

Mr. Knightley was grateful for his friend's sincerity, but he said, "Men deal with their emotions differently, Emma."

"But Papa cried this morning!"

"Different men deal with their emotions differently, Emma." He calmly explained.

"And how do you deal with yours, Mr. Knightley?" Nothing ever escaped Emma's curious mind.

"When I feel happy I would take a walk…" He reflected.

"Or read a book!" Emma interjected.

"Yes!" Mr. Knightley smiled, "How did you know?"

"Mr. Knightley," Emma rolled her eyes, "you're always walking to everywhere or reading in your library. If you like to take a walk when you're happy, then you must like to read too when you're happy!"

"Hum! Your logic has sense, Emma." He nodded approvingly.

He looked straightly into young Emma's eyes and added, "I also like to talk to my friend!"

"That would be… _me_?" Wide-eyed Emma asked, holding her breath.

"Hum!" He nodded, smiling down at her.

A bright sunny smile crept up on Emma's face!

"And when you are sad?" She continued to ask.

He reflected again.

"Humph… I suppose I'd like to be alone…"

"Just as I do?"

"Perhaps…"

"But just because you wish to be alone," Emma lifted a playful eyebrow, "does not mean you _should_ be alone, Mr. Knightley!"

Mr. Knightley laughed!

"And" looking straightly into Emma's eyes again, he added, "I also like to talk to my friend!"

"And that would be… _me_ again?" she asked cautiously.

"Hum!" Smiling warmly at the child, Mr. Knightley nodded with enthusiasm.

A brilliant smile instantly showed up on Emma's face! Emma's brilliant smile could brighten anyone's day anytime. Mr. Knightley might have seen the brilliant smile on this happy child a thousand times, but he would never get tired of it!

"Come, Mr. Knightley!" Emma grabbed his hand and started dragging him to walk.

"Where are we going?" He asked, standing firmly on the ground, wondering what was in her ever spiraling mind.

"Lunch, of course!" Emma spoke a-matter-of-factly, "Now that John has removed to London - you must come to Hartfield every day and dine with us every meal!"

"I don't think Mr. Woodhouse would like the idea!" He chuckled.

"Do not be silly as a goose, Mr. Knightley, Papa loves your company!" Now dragging him with both her hands, "Besides, I'm the mistress of the house now, I get to make decisions!" Emma said proudly.

"Ah! That is right; you are the mistress of Hartfield now…. but why every day and every meal?"

"Hum… may be not every day and every meal, I know you have to visit your tenants and tend your business and all… but you must come as often as you can!"

"Because?" He asked, still wondering the logic behind her bidding.

"Because - friends do _not _leave friends alone!" Young Emma declared.

"Are you going to move or not?" She was grinding her teeth and pulling him with all her might.

Mr. Knightley's feet finally moved, but stopped only after couple yards, "Emma, I have an idea!" his eyes twinkled.

"Yes… what is it?" She looked at him suspiciously.

"Want to race back to the house?"

Her mouth twisted, calculating her chances. "You know I will win!" she said with confidence.

"Do not be so sure of yourself, my friend!" He grinned mischievously, "I have much longer legs!"

"I pity you Mr. Knightley!" Emma snorted, "Which could fly higher, a bird or a rooster?"

"A bird of course! What do they have to do with our race?" He was amused.

Rolling her eyes, Emma said, "Birds can always fly higher because they are much lighter!" she gave him a side-long look, "Your legs might be much longer than mine, but I am much lighter, my friend!"

And in a flash - young Emma lifted up her dress and dashed off.

"Wait Emma…" He yelled out from his lungs, "I haven't said 'go' yet…"

The half-giggling half-screaming child just kept on running!

Mr. Knightley's face broke into a bright smile which was as brilliant as Emma's; he shook his head in amazement and wasted no time but turned on his heels to chase after his youngest and dearest friend.

* * *

**A/N: **I've been feeling apprehensive about writing, not due to lack of ideas, but due to lack of confidence and much self doubts – probably just a phase. As this chapter is complete, I shall take a break, however long it might be, and let my apprehension runs its course and see where it lands me!

Thank you for reading, as always! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

* * *

"Miss Taylor… do you recall where I put the box of alphabets?" The twelve-year-old remembered she had played the alphabet game with her governess not long ago, but could not recall where she had left it.

Miss Taylor had just fluffed Mr. Woodhouse's pillow to his liking and was securing it behind her employer's back as he awaited his evening tea by the fire.

The governess turned her head and her eyes were met with an amusing sight! Emma, her arms full of toys and games stacked up as high as the top of her head leaving only peeping-cracks for her to see where she was going, was juggling her way from the hallway into the drawing-room, she swayed and wobbled and almost tumbled, but luckily had finally made it into the room without a crash.

Mortified by the wavering stack in his youngest daughter's arms, Mr. Woodhouse spoke up anxiously, "Emma my dear, you will catch your death inhaling the dust from those toys in your lungs! And… and… what if the dread falls on your toes my dear? Pray, leave the cleaning of your toys to the servants!"

"I am not cleaning my toys, Papa, these toys are perfectly clean," Emma explained, "Isabella will be home in three days, on the day I turn _thirteen_, Papa!" The happy child beamed brilliantly at her father, "I am gathering all my favourite toys and games so that Isabella, John, Mr. Knightley and I could play everything that I wish to play!"

One by one, Emma meticulously laid her toys and games on the mahogany tea table – all according to the order of her plan, which she started naming to her two audiences with great animation.

"You see, Isabella promised me that she and John would play anything I wish to play, not even John could say 'no' to me! I have everything planned - we shall play Graces, Ninepins, Jackstraws, Tops, Knucklebones, Charades – oh, do I have the best charade idea – I shall be the queen of course with my crown and throne, Isabella will be the princess captured by John the wicked witch, and Mr. Knightley will be the knight in armour slaying the wicked witch to save the princess and returning her to me the queen. Then we shall play Hunt the Slipper… and of course the alphabet game that I am looking for… but where could it be…"

Little doubt that Mr. Woodhouse shared Emma's anticipation of Isabella's homecoming, but the mere thought of the laughter and noises produced from several young people engaged in fun and games seemed to put the old gentleman's stomach in nausea. He was happy to see his tea brought in, "Ah! There is my tea!"

Miss Taylor, on the other hand, had been watching the animated Emma contentedly, for she had not seen her young charge in such lively spirit since Isabella's removal to London more than two months ago.

"Emma, your box of alphabets is still in the Green Parlour; let me fetch it for you," Miss Taylor said kindly.

"I am coming with you, Miss Taylor!" Emma curtsied to her father and followed her governess into the hallway.

When they were out of Mr. Woodhouse's earshot, Emma, with both her hands clinging to her governess's arm, asked pleadingly, "May I have cake on the day I turn thirteen, Miss Taylor?"

Miss Taylor's eyes flung wide opened, she did not answer.

"Pray, Miss Taylor… May I have cake on my birthday; it will be a special day… may I?" Clever Emma skilfully protruded her lower lip into her surely-hard-to-resist pouty pose.

Her large hazel eyes beckoning her governess, but still not a word from Miss Taylor!

"Papa never let me have cake, Miss Taylor, and I am bored to my ears with apple tart… Isabella shall be home, John and Mr. Knightley will all be here… pray, may we have cake… may we?"

Being cognizant that her pouty lips might not do this time, Emma decided to add her you-love-me-do-you-not puppy eyes for the efficacy of her plead.

Miss Taylor finally looked down at her sweet charge and said gently, "You know your father will not approve, Emma!"

"_But_… _but_…" Emma's mind churned, "but Miss Taylor, you need not tell Papa… just tell Serle to make the cake, Papa never goes inside the kitchen and he would never ask what is on the menu beforehand… pray Miss Taylor… just this once… pray!"

Miss Taylor had lost count of how many times she willingly fell for little Emma's contrived schemes, but the tenderness in her heart for this sweet creature had made it difficult to refuse requests such as this. She stopped walking and spoke softly to the precious child, "Just this once, Emma my dear!" She poked a playful finger at Emma's nose tip and let the motherly smiles broke out of her gentle face.

Though Emma never doubted her endearing power over her loving governess, she was too clever to believe that her pouty lips and puppy eyes were the true force behind the success of her scheme - Miss Taylor's love for her was just as deep as what a mother had for her child, Emma would never take for granted the gentle indulgence that her governess bestowed upon her. She threw her arms about Miss Taylor, squeezed her with all her might and squealed, "Thank you so much, Miss Taylor!"

* * *

The next morning came and Emma was thrilled that it was another day closer to the day that she would turn a year older. She went out to the garden to gather some fresh flowers for the vases, and when the happy child skipping and humming back inside the house, Miss Taylor handed her a post that Kate had collected from the post office only minutes ago.

"And this, of course, is for you Emma m'dear!" Miss Taylor said smilingly.

Isabella and Emma had made a pact to write to each other every week, the two sisters promised to never let the sixteen miles distance came between their affection for one another. Just as the past two months, Isabella's post came this morning; Emma's eyes brightened even more, she dropped her basket of fresh flowers on the floor and opened the post immediately.

Instead of giggling as she always did when reading Isabella's letter, to Miss Taylor's surprise, Emma frowned and her shoulders drooped.

"Is everything well, Emma?" asked Miss Taylor.

Emma looked up with disappointment in her eyes.

"John has been called to work on a case at his firm; he will not be able to extricate himself to leave town for at least a month, which means Isabella will not be able to come home on the day I turn thirteen!"

"Oh dear!" Miss Taylor was disappointed too, for herself and Mr. Woodhouse of course, but far more so for young Emma.

"Can she not come without Mr. John Knightley?" Miss Taylor asked.

Emma shook her head.

"You know how Papa frets over us travelling even couple miles. He would never approve Isabella travelling all the way from London to Hartfield on her own!"

"That is true!"

"There goes all my plans!" said the pouty child.

Feeling very depressed, Emma sighed and walked over to collect her basket. Just as she bent down reaching for the basket, her eyes met the riding-boots of a familiar figure, she looked up.

"Good morning, Emma!" Mr. Knightley smiled down at her with a wide grin.

"Why are you so happy?" the pouty child stood up and asked dully.

"Do not you think that 'Good morning, Mr. Knightley' would be more becoming of a greeting?" The gentleman wondered where the sunny smiles of his friend had gone.

"I am sorry," Emma apologized, followed with an unenthusiastic, "Good morning, Mr. Knightley."

"That is better, Emma. And to answer your question, I am so happy because I am here to bring you your present!" said Mr. Knightley, smugly.

"What is the present for?" still pouting, Emma asked.

Mr. Knightley's mouth twitched. "You are turning thirteen, are you not?"

Emma's gloomy hazel eyes lit up a little, "What is it, Mr. Knightley?"

Though not the elated expression he had hoped for, Mr. Knightley was pleased to see the more lively spirit on Emma's dejected countenance. Reaching out his hands from behind his back, the gentleman produced a package wrapped in wallpaper printed in gray and white on a lighter gray ground, the centre was ornamented with ascending bunches of roses and cape jessamine alternatively, and on one side a bar ascending composed of pearls and gold colours.

The pretty wrapping first caught Emma's eyes, but one look at the familiar shape of the present, her shoulders drooped again.

"Oh…" she grew quiet.

"Disappointed already? You have not even opened it, Emma!" cried Mr. Knightley, feeling a little disappointed himself.

"It is a book, is it not? Mr. Knightley, you have been giving me books every year on my birthday since I was able to read, I do not need to open it to know what it is!"

Feeling sheepish, Mr. Knightley silently reminded himself that his gifts might not often be creative, but they were always thoughtful!

"Books are good for you Emma - they will help you become the accomplished person that you are meant to be."

"But Mr. Knightley, when other children in the village were reading about _Robin Hood_ or _Jack and the_ _Giants_ from chapbooks, you wanted me to read '_The Improvement __of the Mind'_ and… and… '_Paradise Lost',_ I did not even know what paradise was like and it was already lost! What a way to crush a child's dream!"

"You never read that book, did not you?" Mr. Knightley smiled knowingly.

"I tried!" Emma lifted up her chin and looked away.

"Out with it, Emma!" Mr. Knightley cocked a brow, "How much did you read?"

"I read the title page!" Emma declared guiltlessly.

Mr. Knightley stifled his laugh! And Emma went on, "Last year you gave me '_Reflections on the Revolutio__n in France'_! Why would I need to know someone's reflections on the French revolution? And why would I need to know the French revolution at _all_?"

"Because Proverbs says, '_And by knowledge shall the chambers be filled with all precious and pleasant riche__s'_! Emma, those were books that I read when I was your age, I do not see why they would not suit you."

"But Mr. Knightley, have you ever noticed that I could not be still for more than quarter of an hour at a time, while _you_ could sit in your library and _talk_ to your books for an entire day?"

"Emma, I think you are underrating yourself…"

"Mr. Knightley, pray be assured that I am not calling myself a lesser able being than you, and any gentleman or lady for that matter… but I am only a _child_, Mr. Knightley! Children are meant to be imaginative, whimsical, making up stories, going on adventures, conjecturing all sorts of mischief; and for me – I like to chase rabbits, catch butterflies, run in the fields, climb trees… "

"_And_ eat barks!" Mr. Knightley chuckled.

"That was when I was not even two years old, Mr. Knightley!" Emma wrinkled her nose at him.

"Ah yes! I remember now - that was when you could not tell your own thumb from a wiggly worm!" Mr. Knightley pulled a disgusting face to tease his young friend.

"_Shhh_!" Emma looked around to see if her Papa was present, "If Papa hears it he will call for Mr. Perry and have my stomach washed! Pray keep your voice low!"

"Very well Emma! I am not here to reveal your _dirty_ secret to your father." He held up the package in front of her, "You have not even opened your present and you already decided against it! Would you just open it and see what it is?" earnestly, Mr. Knightley appealed.

Hesitantly, Emma took the package and proceeded to unwrap it slowly, taking care not to tear apart the delicate wallpaper. She might not have great expectations on the present, but she found the wrapping-paper very beautiful and would like to preserve it as she had done with the other wrapping-paper from many of Mr. Knightley's presents in the past.

Indeed it was a book.

But to Emma's greatest relief, it was not _'The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire'_ which Mr. Knightley had been speaking of giving her!

"'_Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World__, in Four Parts'_" Emma read the title of the book aloud.

"Oh!" She squealed, "This is the '_Gulliver's Travels'_ that I have always wished for! Thank you, thank you… thank you! _Thank you_, Mr. Knightley!" The child was bouncing up and down, and was so excited that she threw her arms around her grown up friend and squeezed him till he chuckled.

When young Emma finally released Mr. Knightley from her arms, the gentleman bent to speak to her with the warmest smile, "I have learnt my lesson, Emma! I think I can at last congratulate myself for giving you a present that you like – for the _first_ time!"

The wide grin which was on Mr. Knightley's face when he first greeted Emma had made its way back!

Emma could hardly wait to open the book and start reading, but a few seconds later she snapped her book closed and looked up at her friend with narrowed-eyes.

"Is not it too soon to give me my present, Mr. Knightley?" she asked suspiciously, "I am not turning thirteen for another two days!"

"Ah… there is another matter that I wish to speak with you." Mr. Knightley felt a tug at his heart.

"I am leaving for Guildford today for their sheep-shearing festival… I will be gone for three days, Emma…"

"_Three_ _days_!" Emma frowned.

The gentleman nodded, regrets filled his face.

Looking even more dejected than she was previously, Emma muttered, "I think I shall go read my book now." She slowly dragged herself to the chair by the window and sank into it.

Mr. Knightley turned toward Miss Taylor and inquired, "Is Emma unwell this morning, Miss Taylor?"

The governess sighed, "Mr. Knightley, dear Emma received Isabella's letter before you came in. The letter informed her that Isabella would not be coming home on the day she turns thirteen!"

"That is right!" He recalled, "John has been called to work on a pressing case at his firm and he is not allowed to leave town for at least a month. Emma must be very disappointed that they will not come to Hartfield as they had planned!"

"And you will be absent as well!" Miss Taylor added.

Mr. Knightley sighed - he watched his downcast friend reading in silence for a moment before taking his leave for Guildford's sheep-shearing festival the next three days.

* * *

**A/N:** I have only written four stories, but '_Spectrum of Love'_ was my favourite of the four (though the least read! LOL!) I have decided to extend the story and make it a prequel to the novel. I've renamed it to '_Young Emma'_. The story (chapter one) opens with the night before Isabella and John's wedding and shall cover the period through Emma turns seventeen. I'm not sure if anyone will read it, as there is no romance in it – but I really wanted to write it, so this is for my own amusement more than anything else!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

* * *

The day of Emma's thirteenth birthday had arrived, but with only her Papa, Miss Taylor and herself at Hartfield, this day was not unlike any other day – in fact, it was duller than any other day! Not only that Isabella and John could not pay their visit at Hartfield, even her friend and neighbour Mr. Knightley was absent from his usual seat at the dining table and the drawing-room. Since John and Isabella's wedding day, Mr. Knightley had been calling on the Woodhouses almost daily. Often times he would come for breakfast and read the newspaper to them for nearly half an hour before setting off on his busy day, other times he would be there for supper, or on the days when he was fully engaged with the affairs of being a landlord and a magistrate, he would at least come for tea in the evening. But as he was in Guildford for the sheep-shearing festival, Hartfield and Emma had been lonelier than usual the last two days.

Mr. Woodhouse was having a particularly disagreeable day, his digestion seemed in poor order; instead of partaking a light supper as usual, the old gentleman had forfeited his meal all together and decided to only take a bowl of very thin gruel while Emma and Miss Taylor took their regular meal.

"Emma, are you ready for your sweets?" Miss Taylor asked in a livelier than usual voice, all in the effort to rouse her sweet charge's spirit.

Emma jerked her head in small rapid motions and winked at Miss Taylor several times hinting to defer her cake-time after her papa's removal from the dining-room, as the thought of cake, let alone the sight, at such a time with her papa's delicate constitution would no doubt cause him too much distress.

Unfortunately, Mr. Woodhouse looked up from his very thin gruel, looking dumbfounded, he asked, "What sweets, Emma my dear? Are you not having your favourite apple tart? You have had apple tart every night since… since… I do not remember when! But it is still your favourite, is it not?"

"Ah… ah… Of course, Papa! Apple tart is my favourite sweet in the whole wide world!" the dear child declared boldly. "But Papa, do not you think that having too much of a good thing would spoil its goodness and make it hardly any good?" Emma asked astutely, looking straight into her father's eyes.

Mr. Woodhouse found Emma's question thought provoking, he pondered.

"That _does_ have sense, Emma. You are so clever my dear! Are you suggesting that we should fast from all sweets from this day on?"

"Oh no, oh no! Not from _all_ sweets, Papa! Since our Hartfield apple tart is the most wholesome apple tart in all of Highbury, I suggest that we should fast from apple tart for… for a year… to… to preserve the goodness and wholesomeness of our apple tart!" The clever child stood up one of her fingers to make her point, she spoke with great confidence to her father, "Remember, Papa, too much good thing is _not_ good! Do not you think preserving the goodness of our Hartfield's pride and joy the greatest suggestion ever?"

"Yes, it is indeed, Emma my dear, you always have such wonderful suggestions! And what would you suggest for sweets if we are to fast from apple tart for a year?" the father inquired with rare curiosity.

"Ah… since you asked, and _only_ because you asked, Papa…" the cunning child put on a very serious face, "I would suggest… for at least a month we shall have cake for sweets!"

"_Cake_!" Mortified, Mr. Woodhouse cried out.

"Yes, _cake_, Papa! As too much good thing is not good for us, then -" she gave a knowing look to her papa as she went on, "the _contrary_ must be true, do not you think, Papa?"

"What could you mean, Emma my dear?" Mr. Woodhouse was exceedingly intrigued.

"The logic is simple Papa!" the child smiled, speaking authoritatively, "That is - _if_ - too much of a _good_ thing is _not_ good for us - _then_ - too much of a _bad_ thing is _not_ _bad_ for us!"

"_Huh_?" Mr. Woodhouse winced; his droopy eyelids sprang wide opened!

"Yes, Papa, you ought to trust me! Have not you said that I am the cleverest in the family? If I _am_ the cleverest in the family, you must agree with my logic, must you not Papa?"

"Ah..." scratching his thinly-haired silver head, the father searched his thought for a moment, and slowly he began to speak, "That _is_ true Emma my dear - you are indeed the cleverest in the family! As _odd_ as your logic sounds, I find it… difficult to disagree…" Mr. Woodhouse still had a bewildered look on his face.

"Pray, do not trouble yourself further, Papa! The _more_ one thinks - the _more_ one is confused!" Clever Emma continued to churn out her charming theories.

Mr. Woodhouse took his daughter's wisdom and exerted himself upon it in a deep frown, "_The mo__re one thinks, the more one is__ confused_… _the more one thinks… the more one is confused…_"

"How wise indeed!" Mr. Woodhouse felt enlightened, the old father stopped thinking!

The frown was lifted off of the father's brows, and in turn, the child saw the delightfully relieved smile on her papa's face.

"_Cake_ it is! For – one – whole – month!" Emma declared most victoriously.

"Miss Taylor, you may serve my cake now!" The happy child turned to Miss Taylor with the biggest toothy-grin her governess had ever seen.

Miss Taylor, who had been biting her lips endeavouring not to laugh, and whose face was growing exceedingly red by holding her breath to curb her laugher for so long, was grateful for the chance to excuse herself from her employer's presence.

"Yes, m'dear!"

The governess eagerly flew out of the dining-room; and no sooner had she left the room - her giggles exploded!

* * *

"_H__mmmm_…" the newly thirteen-year-old closed her eyes savouring the last bites of Serle's delicious creation.

"Good evening, sir!" The voice of an endearing friend had entered into the dining-room and awakened young Emma from her cake-ecstasy.

"Good evening, Mr. Knightley, how kind of you to visit us this evening!" the old gentleman returned the greeting cordially.

Mr. Knightley bowed to Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Taylor politely, and smiled at Emma, who was, in her most pleasant surprise, staring at her friend with her bright round eyes and a full mouth.

The child gobbled down the cake inside her mouth and blurted out, "I thought you were in Guildford!"

"I was not planning to return until the morrow, but there had been a slight deviation in my plan."

"I am so glad you are come back, Mr. Knightley! You must sit down and have some cake!" By this time Emma had risen from her seat, walked over to her friend and looped her hands through Mr. Knightley's arm to lead him to his usual seat at the dining table.

Mr. Knightley lowered his head to speak quietly to her, "How did you manage to have cake in front of your father, Emma?"

The little rascal smiled saucily at him, with incredibly sparkling eyes, "_Ingenuity_ Mr. Knightley, _ingenuity_!"

"And after you have cake, you shall play charade with me!" Emma added excitedly.

"But Emma, do not you think that it would be more enjoyable to have three players in the game of charade than two?" Mr. Knightley asked grinningly.

"Ah… of course, we could ask Miss Taylor to join us." Emma knew Miss Taylor was not fond of the game, but if her friend insisted, she was sure her governess would not mind.

"In that case, do not you think that it is better to have four players than three?" Mr. Knightley's grin widened.

Emma thought the sensible Mr. Knightley was not himself!

She lowered her voice, "But Mr. Knightley, Papa does not like games! He only favours backgammon, you know that! He loathes all other games, he finds them tiresome! You will have to settle for three players instead!"

"Very well Emma, three would do!" Mr. Knightley took a bow to accept the compromise.

Just as Emma finally had her friend seated at his chair, Mr. Knightley sprang back up to his feet.

"Before I allow myself to enjoy the scrumptious sweet," his wide grin returned, "I have a present for you, Emma!"

"_Another_ present?" Emma was surprised, but not soon enough she said, "Oh no! Pray do not tell me that you have gotten me '_The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire__'_ from Guildford! I love the '_Gulliver's Travels__'_ you gave me two days ago, Mr. Knightley, there is no need to outdo yourself!"

"Do not worry, Emma! I shall save _that_ book for Christmas," he gave her a sly smile, "but I dare say you will like your second present even more than the first."

"How could that be possible, Mr. Knightley?" asked Emma.

"And this present could fill our void of the third charade player!"

Emma's curiosity was surely piqued.

Without further ado, Mr. Knightley took a bow to the occupants at the table, left the dining-room, and within half a minute, came back with Emma's second present behind his tall frame.

He announced, "Emma, may I present you your second present and the third player of our charade?" Mr. Knightley stepped aside to reveal what was behind his frame.

Emma, Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Taylor, all gasped!

"_Isabella_!" everyone cried out, the thirteen-year-old being the loudest.

"_Emma_!" Isabella ran toward her dear little sister.

The two sisters flew into each other's arms and happy tears began flowing down their soft cheeks.

"I cannot believe that you are home, Isabella! I was dreadfully disappointed when I thought you could not come!"

"It was not possible for me to come to Hartfield until Brother George came to Brunswick Square this afternoon and offered to escort me the sixteen miles journey!" Isabella and Emma turned their gazes to Mr. Knightley, who was smiling most satisfactorily at them both.

When the two sisters broke apart from each other's arms, Isabella went immediately to greet her father and Miss Taylor, while Emma went to her very dear friend.

"Mr. Knightley," Emma began bashfully, "you changed your plan just for _me_?"

Mr. Knightley smiled, he said warmly, "Dear Emma, I could not bear to see how disappointed you looked when I left Hartfield two days ago. I concluded my business affairs a day earlier so that I could go to London to bring Isabella to Hartfield in time for your _important_ day!"

Emma's cherubic face smiled most gratefully, "Thank you, Mr. Knightley! You are very kind!" Looking down at her hands, she added sheepishly, "I am sorry that I accused you of giving me a dull book as a second present!"

"You're welcome, my dear Emma!" Mr. Knightly laid his gentle hands on Emma's shoulders, smiling down at her, "Did not I tell you that I had learnt my lessons? I might give you _dull_ books on Christmas, but never on your birthdays again!"

Emma looked up at him with her brilliant hazel eyes, and made her confession sincerely, "Your presents are always thoughtful, Mr. Knightley! I regret that I never thanked you the way you deserved... and _this_" her gaze shifted to Isabella, "is the most wonderful present I have ever received! I shall not forget this for as long as I live!"

Emma wrapped her arms around Mr. Knightley's waist and gave him a hug so affectionate that was enough to make up for all her ingratitude for many years past and years to come!

"Now, go and enjoy Isabella's company!" Mr. Knightley gave Emma's little nose a gentle squeeze and a tug at her long curls before urging her to go.

"And you, at this instance, shall come and enjoy my cake!" the child took her friend's hand leading him back to his seat and served him a big helping of her delicious cake.

* * *

What started as a very dull first day of Emma's thirteenth year had turned into, thanks to her dearest friend Mr. Knightley, a splendid evening! The beloved child's plan was not lost after all, she, Isabella and Mr. Knightley played everything that she had wished, with only one small alternation, as John was absent for his role in the charade, Mr. Knightley was bestowed the honour to be both the knight in armour and the wicked witch.

It was said that Mr. Knightley was not only a remarkable landlord and magistrate, but a very talented actor indeed! Though quite put out by his indigestion, Mr. Woodhouse found himself unable to resist the jovial scene of the young people at play, the old father removed himself a whole yard from his fire to catch glimpses of the merry scene, enjoying the evening as much as his daughters and very good neighbour. The old gentleman chuckled at the sight of the knight holding up his sword (a limply little wooden stick) yelling regally at the invisible wicked witch demanding the release of the princess. The old gentleman's chuckles grew even jollier when the actor then transformed into the wicked witch and fell to the floor in a loud yelp after being slain by the invisible knight. However, a turn of event occurred when the look of excruciating pain on the excellent actor's face launched Mr. Woodhouse to so hard a laugher that a violent ache suddenly appeared in his skinny belly. Mr. Perry, of course, was summoned immediately to Hartfield; after nothing short of the most thorough examination, the good apothecary announced that the old gentleman had suffered from a case of over-jolliness and prescribed a more sober game of backgammon as its cure, and the young people were to administer the prescription very carefully. The prescription was magical! – Only one game, the skinny belly achiness in the old gentleman was deemed under control, and another game, even the queasiness that lingered all day in his stomach was forgotten!

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you all for your kind comments in chapter four! I am grateful to learn that someone's reading and enjoying this story! :D

Hi Josephine – Thank you so much for letting me know that you're enjoying the story and your suggestion! Though what I have planned is very different from your suggestion, I hope you'll continue to enjoy the development of this story! :-)


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six **

* * *

After an excellent evening of cake and games, the two sisters laid in Isabella's old bed, just as they used to, chatting and catching up to no ends. Having never set foot outside of the town of Highbury, young Emma was fascinated with every minute detail that her dear sister had to impart – the decoration and furnishing of the new couple's home at Brunswick Square, the fashionable society in London that John loathed but Isabella admired, the fine shops on the Mall and St. James's Street, the eye-dazzling Bond Street loungers, the Buckingham house used by the Royal Family, the famous St. Paul's Cathedral, Hyde Park, and Piccadilly; then there was the hustles and bustles of town life so different from the quiet ones in the country, the long hard hours of John's barrister profession, the dirty and smoky streets that their papa feared so much which Isabella dared not to mention in her letters, and the nauseating stenches and head-pounding noises produced from the multitudes of urban trades - fortunately Brunswick Square was situated several miles away from these deplorable conditions, Isabella and John's health was safe from all significant harms.

When the small hours of the morning arrived and Emma's heavy eyelids almost shut tight, she could faintly hear Isabella calling her name.

"_Emma_…"

"_Hmm_…" moaned the little sister.

"How would…" uttered the big sister.

"_What_…"

"How would you…" It seemed an effort for Isabella to find the right words to say. "How would you like…"

"_Hmmmm_… _y-e-s_…" The thirteen-year-old was drifting into slumber quick.

"How would you like to be… an _aunt_?" The last word came out of Isabella shyly.

"_W__-__h__-__a__-__t_…" The voice of the sleepy child was fading.

"How would you like to be an _aunt_?" Isabella's tiny voice increased a little.

"_Me... not... _a_-__n__-t_?" The child was talking in her sleep.

"No, Emma... _Aunt_!" Isabella spoke up a little more still.

"_Hmmmm..._" moaned Emma.

The big sister knew if she kept on waiting, her little sister would be falling into deep slumber and could not be roused.

"Emma!" Isabella gave the arm of the sleeping angel an exasperated-tug, speaking aloud, "_AUNT,_ Emma, _AUNT_!"

"_A__UNT_?" Isabella's words rang in Emma's ears. The child sprang sitting straight up!

"What do you mean Isabella?" grasping at Isabella's arm, Emma begged for clarification.

"You know what I mean, you silly girl!" Isabella sat up next to Emma, looking down at her hands, blushing very prettily.

Emma gasped, "You mean… you mean…" the thirteen-year-old rubbed her round eyes, "you are… with _child_?"

Isabella nodded, still looking down with a demure smile.

The little sister squealed!

"That is the most wonderful news, Isabella! You will be a mother and I shall be an aunt!" Emma got off the bed dancing about the chamber.

"Can you feel the baby? You look just the same, Isabella? When did you know? Are you certain? How did you know? Have you told anyone? John? Mr. Knightley? Papa? When will the baby come out? Does it hurt now? Will you wobble like a duck? Baby stockings… caps… oh! I need to learn to knit… right, of course... and sew..." the excited Emma went on and on.

Isabella giggled! "Too many questions, you silly goose, I can hardly answer all of them!"

"Well then… ah… tell me - are you sure? You see, you look just the same, Isabella, do not you know until you are _big_? That is how I tell when Mrs. Isabel is in family way!"

"No, Emma, a woman need not wait until she becomes big to know…"

"But _how_?"

"She just knows! I have consulted Doctor Wingfield, our London doctor, with my state of health, and he said I was indeed with child."

"Does John know?"

Isabella blushed prettily again, "_Yes_… John knows!" her voice grew very tender.

"Is he excited? Oh, that Ogre…" Emma checked herself immediately, "ah… I mean John must be excited!"

The mother-to-be nodded sweetly.

"Does Mr. Knightley know? He shall be Uncle Knightley and I shall be Aunt Emma!" The thirteen-year-old clapped her hands jovially.

"No, not yet! But John will write to Brother George after I give you the news… I wished you be the first to know, Emma!"

"I am _so_ happy for you, Isabella!" Happy smiles kept spilling over the little sister's face, but even while basking in the joy of an expectant aunt, Emma did not forget her father, "When will you tell Papa, Isabella?"

Isabella turned anxious, "That _is_ the thing, Emma... I am afraid of telling Papa!"

Emma temporarily set aside her excitement to listen attentively to her dear sister.

"You know how Papa is against all changes! As he is still not convinced that my marriage to John is a good thing for me, I am afraid when Papa finds out that I am with child, he will be greatly distressed!"

"Or sink into a pit!" Emma sighed, "You are right, Isabella! Papa is fearful of childbirths, I am certain that he shall be depressed by the news!"

"What shall I do, Emma? You are the cleverest one in our family… you must help me break the news to Papa!"

"Ah... pray do not worry, Isabella… we... we shall find a way to tell your good tidings to Papa!"

Emma really had not an inkling of how to disclose Isabella's state of health to her papa without sinking him too low. And this was all too new to her as well! She knew not how a lady learnt that she was with child, or how she became pregnant, what it was like to have a life inside her body, or what to expect during those long months of carriage. Often times she could craft stories upon stories to convince her papa into believing an idea that he would otherwise be against, but how was she to tell her papa that Isabella was with child – she did not know! With the hope that a good night sleep would bring her the wit she needed, the dear child pulled the covers over her head and fell into slumbers next to her dear sister.

* * *

It was breakfast hour at Hartfield, Emma, Isabella, Mr. Woodhouse, and Miss Taylor all gathered at the dining table in the dining-room. Toast, bacon, poached eggs, smoked herrings, apricot preserves, milk and fresh fruits, and thin gruel were served. Mr. Woodhouse was contented to have both his daughters by his side, and the ache in his skinny belly caused by over-jolliness had all dissipated; he looked down merrily at his bowl of gruel and happily slurped the thin mixture.

Both Emma and Isabella were very fond of fresh preserves, while Emma took her heaping servings and spread them on her toast, Isabella only stared at her plate, hardly touching the hearty meal.

Miss Taylor had noticed Isabella's empty gazes; out of the goodness of her heart, the kind governess asked gently, "Are you unwell, Isabella? You have not taken a bite of your breakfast, my dear!"

Isabella was startled.

"Huh… yes, Miss Taylor, I am well, thank you!" Isabella answered Miss Taylor politely but her eyes were on her little sister.

Emma instantly read Isabella's mind. She cursed inwardly at herself, for her restful night of sleep did not give her the wit that she had hoped for, she still had not the faintest idea on how to convey Isabella's news to their papa.

Unfortunately Mr. Woodhouse caught Miss Taylor's question to Isabella and he looked up to see his daughter's colour.

"You look pale, Isabella my dear!" the father commented gravely.

"I am not pale, Papa… " said Isabella nervously.

"You _are_ pale, my Poor Isabella, the travelling from London must have fatigued you... It is all Mr. John Knightley's fault; he had to take you so far away! Look what he had done to you!" Mr. Woodhouse had not forgiven his son-in-law for removing his daughter all the way to London. The look of fatigue on Isabella's face had unleashed the grudge that the father hid in his breast; the indulgent father was agitated to an unprecedented extent.

"Pray, Papa, I am very well… I am not fatigued… I am just not hungry…" Isabella eyes were welling up.

"Eat _something_, Isabella..." Emma lowered her voice urging her sister quietly, hoping to curb her papa and sister's distress, "it will make you feel better!"

Knowing her morning sickness might produce undesirable effect from partaking breakfast, Isabella whispered shakily, "But I _cannot_…"

Mr. Woodhouse was neither known for his wit nor his hearing – but Fate had brought Isabella's whispered words to her papa's ears.

"Why cannot you eat?" The indulgent father sounded stern - and he was never stern!

"I… I… just cannot, Papa…" Isabella began to weep.

"It is all John Knightley's fault!" Mr. Woodhouse reproached his absent son-in-law again.

Isabella's tender heart could not bear her father's harsh reproaches of her beloved husband; she picked up her fork, pricked at the eggs on her plate and delivered tiny forkfuls to her mouth.

Comforted by his daughter's willingness to partake nourishment, the father returned to his gruel; but then only a minute later, a burping sound from Isabella met his ears, and when he looked up, the food that Isabella had just swallowed were all accounted for on her plate!

"Good Grief! What happened to you, my Poor Isabella?" the father cried out, "Call Mr. Perry immediately! My poor child is ill!"

"No Papa, pray… I am not ill… there is no need to call for Mr. Perry!" Isabella got up from her chair, moving to the side of her father and begged.

Emma panicked! "_Think, think, Emma... __think quick_!" The thirteen-year-old kept telling herself, but her wit deserted her.

Mr. Woodhouse continued to blame the absent John Knightley scornfully, and by now Isabella was sobbing miserably while Miss Taylor was busy removing and replacing her plates.

"It is all John Knightley's fault!" The father repeated these words over and over again, and Isabella's sobs grew louder and louder.

In the moment of her witlessness, Emma called out abruptly – "Isabella is with child!"

"_What_?" Mr. Woodhouse turned to Emma.

"Isabella is with child, Papa... she is not ill!" Mr. Knightley had often said that the truth would set one free - Emma prayed to Heaven that her friend was right!

The agitated father turned his stare at his eldest daughter.

"We should all be happy for Isabella, should we not?" Emma said to her father, hoping he would turn to her to discover her patent cherub-like smile, "She will be a mother, Papa, is not it wonderful?"

The agitated father stared emptily into the air; slowly he put his elbows on the table and sank his head into his hands - not the effect that Emma was hoping for! Without looking up, the father lamented, "My Poor Isabella… it is hopeless... childbirth shall ruin you!"

"But Papa," Isabella knelt by Mr. Woodhouse's side, begging with her hands on her father's arm, "I shall be fine, Papa, Doctor Wingfield is the best doctor in London, he assures me that I shall have a safe childbirth!"

From the deeply distressed look on her papa's face, Emma knew she had committed a mistake in betraying the intelligence. Now that she had plunged her sister into deeper peril, how was she to salvage her... and... to redeem herself? She needed... she needed a distraction, yes, she thought - she needed to distract them!

"Doctor Wingfield! Who is doctor Wingfield?" Mr. Woodhouse asked scornfully, "How could anyone trust a town doctor… what does the fellow know?"

Her father's sternness had turned Isabella's sob into a hysterical cry.

_Distraction…__ distraction_ - Emma kept searching for a distraction, where were they when she needed them!

"Where do babies come from?" Emma blurted out suddenly, did not even know how it came to her mind, this distraction might not be a clever one, but it would do for now.

But no one heard her!

The child decided to scream from her lungs, "Could someone pray tell me where babies come from?"

Everyone heard! Everyone went silent! Everyone stared at the child!

_Distraction __indeed_! Emma thought that she must have treaded on a matter of import!

She surveyed the stunned expressions on her papa, Isabella and Miss Taylor.

To ascertain that her distraction was truly working, Emma asked again with a delightful grin, "Could someone pray tell me where babies come from?"

As all the stunned faces were turning red, the clever child bravely seized the moment to save her sister. She pressed on, "You know, no one ever explains to me how a lady gets in the family way before… Could someone tell me, pray?"

An intense silence swept across the entire dining-room.

_Distract and Conquer_! _Indeed_! Clever Emma smiled victoriously!

Then – the curious Emma decided that this must be a worthy subject to explore. To begin her quest, the child first asked her governess, "Miss Taylor, why do so many ladies come to be with child soon after they wed?" Miss Taylor's eyes quickly moved away from her charge, the poor governess looked down wordlessly and did not look up again for the rest of the meal.

Perhaps Miss Taylor did not know! Emma thought.

Then the child shifted to her sister, "Isabella, what did you and John do to put you in the family way?" Isabella's jaw dropped to her chest, her cheeks and ears turned flame-red! Immediately she returned to her chair and started chomping on a piece of toast.

Emma thought it strange, but as long as Isabella was no longer in hysteria, all must be well!

While Miss Taylor and his eldest daughter were facing Emma's agonizingly embarrassing questions, Mr. Woodhouse quietly buried himself in his bowl of thin gruel (his head was ducked so low in his bowl that when he looked up there was a drop of gruel on the tip of his nose!) wishing his youngest daughter would spare him from - _the question_!

Unfortunately, no one at the table escaped. Feeling completely righteous, Emma turned to her father next, and asked bold-facedly, "Papa – what did you and Mama do to get Mama pregnant with Isabella and me?"

Poor Mr. Woodhouse choked – gruel came flying out of his mouth! The red-faced old gentleman looked down and around to avoid his daughter's question and her inquisitive gaze; he swallowed hard and then said, "Ah… Miss Taylor… could you… could you pass… _that…_" his finger pointing shakily, "I mean… the… bacon, pray?"

Emma was astonished! Her papa never ate bacon for its grease was too rich for his digestion, why would he wish it now? She wondered. Nonetheless, if his craving for bacon stopped him from blaming John and terrifying poor Isabella, it would not hurt for him to try a piece or two!

"Yes… sir… ah… we are almost out of bacon, let me fetch more from the kitchen!" The governess flew out of the dining-room with a plate half-full of bacon in her hand.

"Well… I think I shall have bacon some other day… ah… I shall retire to my armchair… by _myself_!" Mr. Woodhouse also disappeared from the dining-room in a swiftness that no one had ever seen in him before.

"I shall be in my chamber if anyone wishes to see me!" Isabella declared hastily and left the dining-room without a trace.

Sitting alone at the table, Emma was bewildered. "Was it something I said?" The newly thirteen-year-old could tell everyone left because of her, but she knew not why.

"Strange!"

The child shook her head, put the last piece of toast on her plate, scooped a heaping dollop of preserves from the bowl, spread it on her toast, and enjoyed!


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** _Warning: The subject in this chapter may not be to most people's taste, but it is inevitable to the growth of our heroine..._

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

Several months had past, Emma was convinced that being thirteen did not seem different from being twelve – surely new dresses, stockings and shoes had to be made for her as she continued to grow, but she had been growing steadily over the years, nothing seemed unusual as she aged. She still loved to chase rabbits, catch butterflies, run in the fields and climb trees as she pleased. Life was simple, though a little lonely at times because Isabella had removed, Emma had gotten used to the daily life without her dear sister, and Miss Taylor and she had become even closer than before. Perhaps life would always be this way and she would be happy with it!

_That _- was what young Emma thought until that fateful morning…

"Kate, have you seen Miss Emma out of her bedchamber this morning?" Miss Taylor asked the maid.

"No, Miss Taylor, perhaps Miss Emma is still asleep," suggested the maid.

"Humph… thank you, Kate."

Miss Taylor had known Emma since she was not even five; nothing could ever keep this sweet little creature in bed for very long. The bundle of energy would rise as soon as she saw the sun creeping up and nothing short of a heavy rainfall or snowstorm could keep her away from her morning walk in the garden or visiting her nature friends in the field.

As she had not seen a trace of the lively child this morning, Miss Taylor was growing concerned. She thought her charge might have fallen ill and must find out before Mr. Woodhouse began to notice the absence of his daughter at breakfast hour.

The governess placed several gentle knocks on Emma's bedchamber door but she heard nothing in reply. She gingerly opened the door and prodded her head inside the room. The curtains were pulled, which meant Emma had been up, but the figure covered under the pile of blankets suggested that the child was still in bed.

Miss Taylor stepped into the room, closed the door behind her quietly, walked over to Emma's bed and sat down next to her. She gently pulled the covers away from Emma's head and was startled by what she saw.

"Oh! Emma my dear! Why are you crying?" Miss Taylor was started to find her sweet charge drenched in her own tears, her reddened face was smeared with tears from her crying and sweat from being muffled under the heavy blankets.

Emma instantly clung onto Miss Taylor and began to sob uncontrollably.

"Why are you crying Emma? What is the matter, my child? Are you hurt? Pray tell me!" the governess asked very anxiously.

"I am going to die, Miss Taylor! I am going to die!" the thirteen-year-old cried out in great distraught.

"Why Emma? Why would you say such a thing, my child? What happened? Pray… I beg you, pray tell me!" Miss Taylor implored.

Emma had always been a happy child, sweet cherubic smiles mingled with a tinge of rascally mischief was a constant mark on the little creature's face; never had Miss Taylor seen her sweet charge in hysteria such as this! What could have happened to this precious child! Desperate-tears were welling up in the governess's eyes.

With enormous hesitation, young Emma began, slowly, very, very slowly, to remove the blankets that covered her body. To her own utter horror, Emma pointed at the red blood stain on her nightdress.

"I am dying… Miss Taylor… I must be dying!" Emma continued to cry out fearfully, trembling as she begged her governess, "Pray, do not tell Papa… it will kill him to know that I am dying, Miss Taylor… pray do not tell Papa!"

The thirteen-year-old continued to sob violently; her tight grip was bruising her governess's arm.

"Oh! Emma!" Miss Taylor saw the stain and surmised immediately what had transpired - the commencement of her young charge's womanhood had arrived! The gentle governess blinked her tears away, held Emma in her arms as tightly as she could, stroking her shoulders and long curls to sooth the child, and speaking to her very tenderly.

"Emma my dear, you are not going to die, my child, you are fine, pray, calm down!"

Not until another minute of crying, Emma was slowly calming down. She sniffled and looked up at her governess imploringly with her big red eyes.

"My dearest Emma, you are not dying!" Miss Taylor smiled and spoke tenderly to her.

"I am _not_?" Emma asked beseechingly, swiping her teary eyes with the palm of her hands.

"No, my dear, you are not dying!" reassured Miss Taylor.

"If I am not dying…" Emma's voice still trembled, "then... why am I bleeding?"

"Emma, _this_" Miss Taylor's gaze shifted to the stain, "is very natural, my child!"

"_Natural_? How could it be?" Emma was completely lost.

"Yes, Emma! It is a natural part of a woman's life!"

"A _woman's_ life?"

"Yes, a woman's life, Emma!"

"_But_… _but_… I am a _child_, Miss Taylor!" Emma was in dismay.

"You _were_ a child, Emma, but you are turning into a young woman now!"

"I do not understand, Miss Taylor… what does _this_" Emma's gaze directed at the red stain, "have to do with me turning into a young woman?"

"Has Isabella ever spoken to you about _this _before?"

"No..." a bewildered look came upon Emma's face.

"I should not be surprised… as _this _is never a pleasant subject to discuss!" Miss Taylor exclaimed.

"You mean… _this_ happened to… Isabella, too?" Emma asked pensively.

Miss Taylor nodded, "_This_ first happened to Isabella when she was about your age now, and is still happening!"

"It _is_?" Emma astounded.

"Hum, hum! It happens to every woman, Emma!"

"Even... _you_?" Emma asked curiously.

"Hum, hum," Miss Taylor nodded and took Emma's hands into hers, "Yes, Emma, all girls have _this_ when they turn into young women, and they continue to until they reach a certain age later in their lives."

"_What_!" Emma looked at Miss Taylor with horrors in her eyes.

Miss Taylor smiled kindly, stroking Emma's curls as she continued.

"_This_ only happens certain days in a month. For most young women, at first, it could be sporadic, but gradually things will settle down and become more customary."

Emma shook her head fervently, unwilling to believe! "This sounds _horrible_, Miss Taylor... absolutely _horrible_!"

"I know it is a shock to you, Emma. It is always a shock to every girl when _this_ first happens… believe me when I tell you that I thought I was going to die too when I first found out!"

A tiny giggle peeped out of the distraught thirteen-year-old.

Miss Taylor laughed softly, "And Isabella was the same way!"

"She _was_?" Emma almost sounded relieved.

"Oh yes! You were still very young and you would not have noticed anything back then… it was late at night and Isabella ran into my chamber crying hysterically for help!"

Emma laughed, still sniffling, "Isabella does turn into hysteria quite easily!"

A moment of silence came upon them. Miss Taylor could tell that clever Emma was trying to comprehend what was revealed.

"Miss Taylor… " Emma said meditatively, "you said… you said… that all girls have _this_ when they turn into young women… what does it mean… for a girl to turn into a woman?"

"Hum… I remember asking my mother the same question..." Miss Taylor reflected. "I suppose you do notice the differences between a girl and a grown woman, do not you, Emma?"

Emma thought for a brief moment and nodded, "Our bodies are different…"

"That is right!"

"Is that _all_?" Emma was surprised, "Girls have to have _this_ so that we might have bigger chests and larger buttocks?"

Miss Taylor laughed.

"No, Emma my dear! There is far more to turning into a woman than just the physical changes."

"What are they, Miss Taylor?" Emma felt it was her right to know.

"Besides the body, your feelings will begin to change."

"Feelings for _what_?"

"Hum…your feelings for… boys will change…"

Emma was bewildered, "_How_?"

The governess paused to look for the right words, "Ah… you may find you like boys better than before."

"That is _impossible_!" Emma was aghast, "Boys are _disgusting_ and _tedious_! Miss Taylor, upon my word I shall _never_ like boys!"

Miss Taylor smiled in amusement but would not speak further on the subject.

"So that is _all_?" A disdainful expression on Emma's face, she said, "Girls have to suffer from _this_ so that we could grow bigger top and bottom and find disgusting boys agreeable? This is _unjust_!" She threw her arms in the air in protest.

Miss Taylor repressed her amusement and went on, "There is one very, very important matter to being a woman, Emma…"

Emma looked at the governess intently, waiting.

"_This_ is God's way to allow a woman to bear children, and _that_ makes a woman very, very special, Emma!"

The contemptuous look on Emma's face disappeared, but this revelation had piqued her curiosity to new height – for she remembered a few months ago no one was willing to tell her where babies came from!

"But _how_… Miss Taylor? How does a woman come to bear children?" she asked earnestly.

Miss Taylor's face reddened. "Ah… ah…" she hesitated.

"Miss Taylor, how does a woman become pregnant? Is it just because she has _this_?"

"Oh no, Emma… _this_ only gives a woman the ability to conceive!"

"Then _how _does a woman come to be with child, Miss Taylor?"

Miss Taylor was torn between feeling obliged to Emma and the discomfiture caused by her questions.

"Ah… ah… when a woman marries to a man… they… they… ah…"

"Does it mean a woman only comes to be with child when she weds?"

"Ah… technically... no…" The governess wrung her hands nervously.

"You mean a woman does not need to be married to be with child?" Emma was astounded!

"Huh… no… she does not… but... she should…"

"But if she does not need to be married… What does she need, Miss Taylor?" Emma's curiosity continued to climb to unprecedented height.

"She… needs… a… a… she needs…" The governess wished her charge would stop pressing her.

"A _what_, Miss Taylor?"

"A… a… man!" whispered the red-faced governess.

"A _man_?" Emma frowned, she was puzzled beyond beliefs.

"Then, Miss Taylor, what does the man do to the woman for her to be with child?" Her curiosity would not relent; Emma wished to know the answer more than ever!

Though Miss Taylor had always assumed the responsibilities of a mother when it came to Emma, having no experience in matrimony or related matters, the maiden governess found this subject far too embarrassing and uncomfortable to discuss even with her charge – or anyone.

"Emma," Miss Taylor said aloud abruptly, "you do not need to know how a woman comes to be with child… you are far too young!"

"But Miss Taylor, why am I too young to know? I am not too young to have _this_!"

The governess's gentle face darkened; she said sternly, "Emma, you must get out of bed at once, your father will be worried if he does not see you at breakfast."

Emma panicked!

"But Miss Taylor… I cannot go out like… like this!" pleaded Emma, pointing at the stains on her dress.

Miss Taylor took a deep breath, her voice softened, "Do not worry, Emma, I shall go fetch some cloths and clean rags and show you what to do."

* * *

After much ado, Emma was finally able to put her new trepidation abaft. By no means she was feeling up for breakfast, if it were her choice, she would have hidden in her chamber for the rest of the day – or for the rest of her 'woman' life! But her absence would have worried her father, and she would never wish to worry her father, she dragged herself to the dining-room, sat down next to her papa and kept her countenance as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

Nevertheless, the way Miss Taylor refused to answer her question had left a poignant sting in her curious mind. Why the big mystery behind what a man and a woman did to put the woman in a family way? If being able to bear children was so special to a woman, would not being a woman now give her the right to know? If she was old enough to have '_this_', she must be old enough to know where babies came from! And if Miss Taylor would not tell her, her papa, her own flesh and blood, must not deny her her right!

With this notion in mind, Emma began her conversation with her father cheerfully.

"How is your gruel this morning, Papa?"

"Good as always, the best in Highbury!' Mr. Woodhouse replied contentedly, "You ought to have some, Emma my dear!"

"Yes… Papa… perhaps another day…"

A short pause came for Emma to gather her wits.

"Papa, I shall be taking my morning walk after breakfast, do not you think three woollen shawls would suit this autumn weather perfectly?"

Mr. Woodhouse looked up from his gruel with a big smile, "Ah! You surprised me, Emma my dear! It often takes Papa some bidding for you to take two shawls… three woollen shawls would be very agreeable with this weather, I find your choice excellent, my child!"

Emma knew she would get her father's approval on the shawls and put him on a pleasant path. Now she needed one more piece of bait - just one more would be enough to lure her papa into the exquisite mood that she needed to ask her question.

"Papa, I think I am ready to have some gruel now!" the daughter announced bravely.

"Oh! Emma my dear! You are full of surprises this morning, and this is the most pleasant surprise indeed!"

"Kate, gruel for Miss Emma!" Mr. Woodhouse ordered his maid with joy.

The mixture was dished and placed in front of the young Hartfield Mistress. She stared at it and stared at it for a long time.

_For good cause_! Emma finally saluted herself inwardly. She scooped the mixture onto her spoon, closed her eyes, held her breath, and sent the heaping spoonful to her mouth and swallowed – _it was not so __very __bad_ - she opened her eyes and breathed again!

Mr. Woodhouse smiled most satisfactorily at his dear child!

_Now__? Y__es - Now_! Emma contrived.

"Papa, you know I do not ask you many questions, do not you?" the daughter asked sweetly.

Mr. Woodhouse nodded smilingly, "Yes, I know, Emma my dear. You seldom have questions for Papa because you are so very clever, just like your mother!"

"But Papa, if I _do_ have questions, would you be so kind to answer them for me?" Emma looked at her papa with her shimmering puppy eyes.

"Of course, Emma my dear! Papa would never deprive you of your curiosity. I shall answer any question you wish to ask me my dear." The fatherly smiles on Mr. Woodhouse lingered on his daughter.

"Thank you, Papa!" Emma grinned smugly at her father, "I know you would never deny me of anything I wish to know!"

Mr. Woodhouse nodded indulgently.

"Papa…"

The father looked right into his daughter's eyes expectantly.

"Where do babies come from?"

_C__LANG_! The silver spoon fell out of Mr. Woodhouse's hand and clattered the china plate.

"Papa, could you tell me what a man and a woman do that makes the woman pregnant?"

Mr. Woodhouse's eyes sprang wide-opened, his fatherly smiles were not to be found, his thin lined face reddened deep in embarrassment, and his brows elevated high by the paralyzing shock – the poor old father had turned into a stony mosaic!

"Papa, pray tell me… tell me pray…" Emma pleaded insistently.

The father thawed from his frigid pose and shook his head desperately to refuse.

"Papa, you promised me that you would not deprive me of my curiosity, pray, tell me Papa!"

Emma laid her insistent hands on her papa's forearm and continued to plead.

The old gentleman looked absolutely horrified, but with his child's hands on his arm, and his word given to her promising her he would answer her questions, the father found himself in an utter dilemma!

Emma had never willingly put her father under distress, but her desperate curiosity had taken over her judgment, she kept tugging at her father's arm begging him to tell.

"Papa… you promised… pray tell me… What do the man and woman do?"

The poor father finally swallowed hard and began to drawl.

"Ah…" his face flashed from red to white and red again. "Ah…"

"Yes… Papa… what do they do?" Emma kept prompting.

"Ah… they… they…" the old gentleman stammered.

"What do they do, Papa?" The daughter was growing impatient.

"They… they… they come _close_!" The poor father shut his eyes and turned away.

"They come _close_…" Emma repeated quizzically.

The father nodded, could not meet his daughter's eyes.

"How _close_, Papa?" innocently, the child asked.

Poor Mr. Woodhouse took a deep breath, "Ah… _quite... quite _close, Emma my dear… pray no more question!" he waved his hand in the air agitatedly and effectively silenced his daughter.

_Quite __close_ - Emma was astonished! How she wished her papa would say more, but the little that he imparted had created an even bigger question in her heart – _H__ow_ _close_?

It was in this nick of time that Miss Taylor walked into the dining-room joining the father and daughter for breakfast - unaware that she was saving her employer from his dire calamity - Mr. Woodhouse breathed a loud sigh of relief and shook off the horror he had just experienced! Soundlessly, the three of them, Mr. Woodhouse, Miss Taylor and Emma, partook their breakfast, avoiding each other's gazes.

Another few minutes later, Mr. Knightley came into Hartfield into the dining-room. He greeted everyone in his pleasant gentleman-like manner and, as usual, took his seat next to his young friend.

Something must be amiss! The way Emma discreetly moved her chair few inches away as soon as he took his seat and her eyes had yet to meet his, the less than merry looks on the three Hartfield inhabitants, and the tensioned silence that filled the dining-room, none of these went unnoticed by the acutely observant gentleman. But with endeavours Mr. Knightley held his anxiety for the present mystery until the proper time.

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** This upsets my weekly posting schedule a bit, but as this chapter is really the second half of the last chapter, I thought it's better to post it now.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

Once breakfast was concluded, Mr. Woodhouse removed to the drawing-room for his morning nap, Miss Taylor attended her employer, Emma had already excused herself before others finished their breakfast, and Mr. Knightley was determined to seek Emma out after bidding Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Taylor a pleasant day.

He found Emma sitting at the pianoforte in the Green Parlour, fiddling her music pages, unaware of his presence. He stood at the threshold for a few moments observing her in silence. Her fingers might be thumbing through her music pages, but, he could tell, her mind was miles and miles away. He walked over to her.

The sound of his riding boots meeting the wooden floor had stiffened her. Emma stopped fiddling the pages, and froze completely when she heard his voice from behind.

"Would you care to indulge me, Emma?" asked Mr. Knightley, kindly.

"What would you like to hear, Mr. Knightley?" With her back still facing her friend, Emma's voice was subdued.

"Anything you wish to play, Emma."

She randomly selected a piece from her pages and began to play. It was not an easy piece, Mr. Knightley noticed, but if her delicate fingers did not tremble so much, she could have played it perfectly. He wondered what was bothering his friend so much.

"That was well done, Emma!" said Mr. Knightley.

Emma smiled softly and looked down without a word.

He sat down on the bench next to her as he had done numerous times in the past - she moved to the edge of the bench – he wished he knew why!

"Are you well, Emma?" Mr. Knightley asked with concerns.

"Yes…" Emma muttered.

"Humph…" the gentleman nodded at himself.

An unusual silence came between them while Mr. Knightley was searching for a way to draw his young friend out.

"Have you heard the news about the Partridges?" asked Mr. Knightley.

Emma looked up at him curiously.

"Mrs. Partridge had given birth to a healthy baby girl yesterday!" Mr. Knightley revealed cheerfully.

"That is wonderful! And how did Mrs. Partridge fare in her childbirth?" Emma could not help herself but inquired.

Mr. Knightley was glad to see Emma's excitement for the news.

"Mrs. Hodges said that Mrs. Partridge did remarkably well!" said Mr. Knightley, smiling.

"What a relief it must have been, and what felicity for Mr. Partridge to have both a healthy baby daughter and a safe childbirth for his wife!" The kind-hearted Emma rejoiced sincerely for the family.

"Indeed! It is the Partridge's eighth child in ten years; can you imagine having eight children running around in Hartfield? Now – _that_ would drive your father mad, would not it?" Mr. Knightley thought the image would amuse his young friend.

Unfortunately, the image of having eight little ones running around in Hartfield had not the desired effect on Emma. The imaginative thirteen-year-old suddenly pictured herself with child, growing enormously large and wobbling hideously, her hair and clothes in disarray, face, hands and feet all swollen beyond recognition; she had heard about the daunting back pain, the exhausting sleepless nights, and the extreme discomfort during the last months of pregnancy from the ladies in the village – she began to pant, and the fear and horror in her eyes threw Mr. Knightley to a start!

"Are you unwell, Emma?" he asked urgently, laying his hand on her shoulder.

"Do not touch me!" Emma swung off his hand and screamed out.

Mr. Knightley instantly retracted his hand and apologized frantically, "Forgive me, Emma! I did not mean to frighten you!"

Emma was rattled by her own unintended screaming. "No… you… you did not frighten me, Mr. Knightley!"

Mr. Knightley's concern for Emma grew deeper and deeper, never had he seen Emma acted so agitatedly – her timorousness and the unexplainable screaming were completely uncharacteristic of her lively and happy dispositions!

Right then, Emma asked a seemingly unrelated question.

"Is childbirth very painful, Mr. Knightley?" The distress in her eyes marred her cherubic features.

"As I do not have firsthand experience Emma, I could only tell you what I have heard..."

He nodded slowly.

Emma was horrified! Unwillingly, her mind drifted off, again, to the image she had previously, and this time she saw herself screaming and crying in great pain during childbirth – her entire person trembled!

"Are you unwell, Emma?" Mr. Knightley asked desperately, unaware that he had put his hand on Emma's shoulder - again!

"Stay away from me!" Emma screamed out, even louder than before. She sprang up from the piano bench immediately and ran to the window.

Mr. Knightley's worries for Emma had reached an overwhelming proportion. Something unusual must have happened to her! Did someone hurt this precious child? Whatever it would take, he must find out!

He had followed her to the window, standing a yard away from her, Mr. Knightley asked, cautiously, "Dear Emma, it is obvious that something is bothering you greatly, would you pray tell me what it is?"

Emma looked down, would not answer.

Watching Emma's silence, Mr. Knightley proceeded further, with great sensitivity he asked, "Did... _someone..._ hurt you, Emma?"

Stilling looking down, Emma shook her head and spoke very timidly, "No... no one hurt me... Mr. Knightley..."

Wishing to give his friend a reassuring hand and willing her to look at him, Mr. Knightley was inching closer to Emma.

Suddenly Emma looked up, "Do not… do not come close to me, Mr. Knightley!" she cried fearfully.

"Why cannot I come close to you, Emma?" Mr. Knightley asked despairingly, "Have I done something that offended you?"

Emma saw the pain she had given her dear friend and she hated herself for giving him pain!

"No…" she muttered with regrets, "Mr. Knightley you did not do anything to offend me..."

"Then tell me why you are afraid of me, Emma!"

"Mr. Knightley… I… I am not afraid of you…" Emma was almost in tears by now.

"But you moved away every time I came within an arm's length of you, Emma… and the screaming!" Mr. Knightley sighed.

"_But_... I am not afraid of you, Mr. Knightley…"

"Then what are you afraid of, Emma?" Mr. Knightley asked gently, and when he saw Emma's apprehensiveness, he reminded her earnestly, "My dear Emma, you know you could speak with me about anything, do not you?"

Emma finally looked him in the eyes pensively.

"I am… I am… afraid of… ah..." Her words had formed a lump in her throat.

_I could tell Mr. Knightley anything_! Emma's own quiet voice assured her. The thirteen-year-old shut her eyes and plunged, "I am afraid of being with child, Mr. Knightley!"

"_What_?" Mr. Knightley snapped.

For several moments he was stunned to speechlessness. When he could finally speak again, he asked carefully, "Did you _mean__..._ that you were afraid of being with child…" mind churning rapidly, he surmised, "by _me_?"

Wishing she could bury herself somewhere in the ground, Emma nodded in mortifying embarrassment, desperately covering her face with her hands!

"Emma," Mr. Knightley asked very slowly and distinctively, "_why _do _you_ think that you would be with child… by _me_?"

The mortified Emma confessed through the cracks of her hands that covered her face, "Papa said when a man and a woman came close… the woman shall be with child!"

Mr. Knightley was in utter dismay!

"_Tha__t… _was _why__…_ you kept moving away from me… because… you thought… by being _close _to me, and my hand on your shoulder… _you_ shall be with child… by _me_?"

Poor Emma slowly let her hands dropped from her face and nodded.

Perhaps it was the immense relief from knowing that Emma was not hurt by anyone, or perhaps it was the unimaginable absurdity of what he had just heard that set the gentleman off on a tangent - a shout of magnificent laugher burst out of Mr. Knightley – most unintentionally of course!

"Why are you laughing?" Maddened by his laugher, Emma stamped her feet.

"That was about the most _ridiculous_ thing I have ever heard, Emma!" said Mr. Knightley, still laughing.

"Mr. Knightley, _stop_ laughing!" Emma stamped her feet again, she grudged, "That was what Papa told me. I asked him what a man and a woman did that made her pregnant, and Papa said that they came close!"

Doing little to repress his laugh, Mr. Knightley asked with remarkably twinkling eyes, "Ah… did your father say - _how close_?"

"Q_uite close_!" Emma cried out in frustrations. "Laugh all you want, Mr. Knightley! No one was willing to explain to me. I asked the same question when Isabella was home months ago, every one ignored me. I asked Miss Taylor this morning but she said I was far too young to know. That was why I asked Papa!"

Emma saw the twinkles sparked in her friend's eyes again, and before he could open his mouth, she said, "Do _not_ make fun of me again, Mr. Knightley! It is obvious that I made a mistake, but I would have no way of knowing it!" She lifted her chin and turned her back at him.

If one would receive a guinea for every mistaken notion that Mr. Woodhouse implanted in his daughter's impressionable mind, Mr. Knightley mused, the person would be a rich man by now! He obediently obliged Emma's request and stopped laughing at her.

"I am sorry, Emma!" Mr. Knightley said sincerely. In an effort to turn Emma around to face him, he laid a hand on her shoulder which caused her to jump.

"Forgive me, Emma, I forgot!" he retracted his hand with a smile, "But I assure you that no woman would be with child because a man lays his hand on her shoulder!"

Emma turned around and a sheepish giggle escaped her!

"Would you come with me, Emma?"

"Where are we going, Mr. Knightley?"

"We shall pay a visit to Joseph."

* * *

They had reached the cattle field at the Donwell home-farm...

"Good morning, Mr. Knightley!" Joseph greeted his master warmly, then turning to Emma, "Good morning, Miss Woodhouse."

"Good morning, Joseph," the Master of Donwell nodded kindly at his farm-servant.

"How do you do, Mr. Ardy?" Emma curtsied politely at the cattle farmer.

"Did not you tell me yesterday that several of our heifers and cows were ready to breed?" Mr. Knightley inquired Joseph.

"Oh yes, Mr. Knightley, I just put our best bull with one of the nicest cows out there!" Joseph pointed at the pair of magnificent bull and beautiful cow standing about thirty yards behind the fence.

"Perfect!" the gentleman smiled, "Joseph, Miss Woodhouse and I were discussing cattle breeding this morning," he shot a knowing smile at Emma, "she finds the subject quite interesting. Would you do me the honour of giving Miss Woodhouse a brief lesson on the subject?"

"It would be my pleasure, sir!"

They then walked closer to the fence for a better view of the cattle in the field.

"First," the good farmer began, "we must look for the signs that tell a cow is ready to breed. See over there," Joseph pointed at a slightly slanderer cow on the pasture further away, "see how restless she is and her excessive mooing? She is wandering around the pasture looking for a mate.

"See the ones over there," he pointed at a different set of cows in another direction, "when they are ready to breed, they would sniff and nudge at each other as well, and they may even fight to ride other cattle in the field as they turn more aggressive!"

Emma loved her diary cow Mrs. Isabel, and she had seen several cows acting in the ways Joseph described on occasions, she had always assumed that the cows were just playing with each other. It fascinated her to learn the reason behind these aggressive behaviours in the gentle beasts.

"When a cow is not ready to breed, she is much mellower with other cattle, but when she is ready to breed and if there is a bull around," Joseph now had pointed back at the beauty and the beast that first drew Emma's attention "she would let the bull sniff and nudge her, which is how the bull looks for the signs that the cow is ready, he will also rest his chin on her rump or rub at her loin to test if she will stand for him to mount her. And if she holds her tail and arch her back for several hours after he mounted her, we shall know that she has been bred."

The good cattle farmer went on for a while longer to explain other physical signs of a cow ready to breed and the signs that she had been bred. Curious Emma had never thought that there was so much art in cattle breeding, and the subtle signs that Mrs. Isabel had displayed that Emma saw and ignored, now seemed unbelievably obvious that the animal was looking for a mate!

"Thank you, Joseph. That was very well done! I trust that Miss Woodhouse finds your lesson quite enlightening, am I right?" Mr. Knightley turned his gaze toward Emma.

Wide-eyed Emma nodded. She was sincerely grateful for the lesson, "Thank you, Mr. Ardy! That was one of the most informative lesson I ever had!" She curtsied as Joseph excused himself to tend the cattle.

The two friends, Mr. Knightley and Emma, stood there by the fence for several quiet moments, watching the cattle silently before one of them would speak.

"Mr. Knightley…" It was Emma who broke the silence.

Mr. Knightley shifted his gaze from the cattle to his friend.

"Thank you for the lesson…" Emma said sincerely.

"You're very welcome, dear Emma!"

"It looks..." Emma began sheepishly, "it… looks like cows will not have calves just by standing close to bulls…"

Mr. Knightley smiled - he nodded.

"That is a very logical conclusion, Emma."

Emma looked down at her hands timidly.

"As God created men and women to rule over the birds in the sky and the beasts on the earth, we humans are far more complicated than animals, do not you think, Emma?" asked Mr. Knightley.

Emma nodded meditatively.

"And if cows and bulls will not have calves just by standing close to each other…" Mr. Knightley paused.

Emma looked up and she read Mr. Knightley's mind, finishing what he had started, "I suppose… a woman will not… will not be with child by… just standing close to a man!"

"I cannot agree with you more, Emma!" Mr. Knightley smiled.

Another brief moment of silence came between them. Then – Emma broke the silence again.

"Mr. Knightley," eyes casting down, Emma's voice was small, "I am very sorry for… for the screaming, and the ridiculous notion of being with child… by… ah... by…" she blushed demurely; the crimson blush that seeped to the surface of her delicate skin had caught Mr. Knightley's attention in a startling way.

He quickly gathered his focus and interposed, "Let us say no more about it, Emma!" smiling kindly down at her, "Whatever was said between us this morning has all been forgotten, promise me that we shall never mention a word of it again!"

Emma smiled gratefully at him. She moved couple steps closer to him, began opening her arms and was about to wrap her grown-up friend around them (just like she had done numerous times in the past when she was grateful for what Mr. Knightley had done for her,) and Mr. Knightley was always ready to open his arms to receive the precious child – but right when she was within inches of embracing him, Emma suddenly dropped her hands and clasped them close to her sides, she moved a step back and looked down blushing deeply again. And when the next moment came, she looked up at him bashfully.

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley!" Instead of embracing her grown-up friend as she used to, Emma reached out her hand shyly, "I suppose I should shake your hand instead..."

Mr. Knightley's handsome face broke into a very kind smile, "That is very becoming of a young lady, my dear Emma!" He gladly took Emma's small hand into both of his and shook it warmly.

Emma's shyness vanished, in return, her luminous smile spread across her angelic face.

"Do I have the pleasure to escort you back to Hartfield, Miss Woodhouse?" asked Mr. Knightley, playfully.

"It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley!" the young lady replied with air, the thirteen-year-old loved the idea of being a young lady!

"And" Mr. Knightley's eyes twinkled, "may I have your permission, Miss Woodhouse, to walk along your side, _if _that is not too _close_ to you, Miss Woodhouse?" There was so much teasing in his eyes that caused Emma to giggle.

"Yes, you may!" The young lady lifted a mischievous eyebrow and added, "And you are certainly not too close to me, I would even take your arm if you would offer it!"

"As you wish, Miss Woodhouse!" The gentleman held out his arm frolicsomely for the young lady, who took it in the same way without the smallest hesitation.

"But stop calling me 'Miss Woodhouse', Mr. Knightley, or I shall call you 'George' just to annoy you! You have called me 'Emma' since the day I was born and I like it that way, I shall never get used to you calling me anything else! Though I am a young lady now, you shall continue to call me by my Christian name!"

"As you wish, Miss Woodhouse… _a__hem_… I mean Emma!"

* * *

That evening after supper, Mr. Knightley visited Hartfield again, he was glad to see that the inhabitants of the elegant mansion had returned to their customary selves. The flashing red and white colours on Mr. Woodhouse's face had disappeared; the awkwardness between the doting father and the spoiled daughter was replaced by more doting from the father and more basking in the daughter. Miss Taylor's unusual stiffness could not be seen; the gentle indulgence that the governess bestowed upon her charge continued to prove that, though motherless, Emma was indeed blessed with the deepest motherly affection.

The extraordinary timorousness and screaming from Emma, the horror in her eyes, the mistaken notion implanted in her by her father had been forgotten; her luminous smiles, lively antics, and witty remarks that could chase away anyone's gloominess had made a wonderful comeback. And Mr. Knightley's own overwhelming fear of something or someone had hurt his young friend was also a thing of the past. Over the years, he had suffered from Emma's numerous whims and fancies, but the experience from that morning topped the most ridiculous _and_ the most endearing of all - whatever happened that morning shall remain in his memories for years and years to come!

Yet, what remained in Mr. Knightley's mind that evening was not the screaming, the horror, nor the mistaken notion he witnessed in his young friend – it was Emma's sudden awareness of the propriety between the gentleman and her own person that had lingered in his mind the entire day.

Emma had always been a beautiful child, her cherubic charm had captured the hearts of everyone who knew her, even his own mother had claimed that little Emma was her favourite amongst all the children in Highbury, and if the Knightleys had a daughter, Mrs. Knightley would have wished her to be just like little Emma!

As for the gentleman himself, it was little Emma's lively spirit, her whimsical fancies, her uncontainable imagination that captured him, and he had been captured for a long time. The cleverness that went beyond her years had made their sixteen years age difference insignificant to their friendship. If her faults and follies maddened him, her wit, liveliness, and kind-heartedness delighted and fascinated him far more. Perhaps Emma's unladylike interests – chasing rabbits, catching butterflies, climbing trees and eating barks (he smiled!) – had always made him see her more of a child than a girl, which was why her _blush_– the feminine blush, the demure crimson blush, which reminded him that his friend was not a child, but a girl, nay, a young lady, was so much the more startling to him!

He had always an anxiety for little Emma – for her to do right, for her to become the accomplished person that she had so much rights and potential to be, after all, being the daughter of a doting father, the charge of an indulgent governess, and the golden child of Highbury contributed little to bring out the best in this special child. It had been sometime since he anticipated the coming of this day – that one day little Emma would not be so little anymore, and it would only be natural that he should treat her as a young lady with all the proprieties that were due to her. And yet, this day had crept upon him like a thief breaking in at the small hours of the night! The sudden realization that his little friend was growing up and turning into a young woman had launched his anxiety to new peaks - What would become of Emma? He pondered. Dared he think of the day when some handsome young suitors would come knocking on the Hartfield door for her hand? Would there ever be a suitor good enough for his precious friend? Could he imagine the day when Emma would be lost to someone forever? What would become of _him_ – his role in her life? And what would become of their friendship?

The gentleman wondered...only _Time_ could tell!

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading! :-)


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

"Do you think these gowns would suit baby Ella, Miss Taylor?" Emma asked her governess, holding several beautiful infant dresses in her hands.

The fourteen-year-old had been ransacking her dressing-room and cedar chests for the last hour searching for her old baby gowns. She and Miss Taylor were visiting the Andertons later in the morning. The family had only moved into the area three months ago. As Mr. Anderton, a farm labourer, had not been able to secure steady employment since their arrival at the parish, and Mrs. Anderton had given birth to a baby girl only last month, the family was in the most needful situation. Miss Taylor and Emma had learnt of their circumstances through the church and visited the family several times over the past two months.

"Are you certain that you wish to give away your precious baby gowns, Emma?" Miss Taylor asked.

Over the years, Emma had given away much of her outgrown clothing and toys to families in need, but she had also saved many baby dresses that she particularly treasured. Today, she selected several of the gowns out of the ones that she had kept as keepsakes to bring to the Andertons, which quite surprised Miss Taylor.

"Hum - yes!" replied Emma, sounding resolute, "You know, Miss Taylor, these infant gowns seemed more precious to me in the past and it was very difficult to let them go, but as time passes, it seems a waste to keep them in the dressing-room untouched while they could be put to good use. As long as I know someone would treasure them as much as I do, I shall do well parting with them."

Miss Taylor smiled tenderly at her charge, "That is very kind of you, my dear Emma!"

"And we are bringing them beef-tea, are not we, Miss Taylor? Mrs. Anderton looked positively pale the last time we saw her; she is most definitely in need of nourishment. And you know beef-tea is good for infants as well!"

Miss Taylor was amused, she said, "Emma my dear, you are sounding like your father just now!"

Emma giggled, "But I shall not go so far as recommending _gruel_ to _Poor _Mrs. Anderton!"

The governess giggled along with her charge.

"Oh, Miss Taylor," Emma added, "we must not forget the salted pork – some wholesome Hartfield pork would do the family well!"

"Yes, m'dear, the tea and the pork have been prepared."

"Hum… the toys are gathered… the books are bundled..." Emma was thinking aloud all the while accounting for the items to bring to the Andertons. "Hopefully Mrs. Anderton would accept my old dresses for her two older daughters… and how I wish she would have accepted the guineas I prepared for them last time... do you think she would accept them today?"

"Emma dear, I think the food, the toys and the books are quite enough for now. You know how Mr. Anderton dislikes charity. Last time Mrs. Anderton did not accept your old dresses for her daughters and the guineas because she feared that Mr. Anderton would disapprove," Miss Taylor reminded Emma.

"That is what I do not understand, Miss Taylor! Many families in the same situation would not hesitate to accept help. Why is Mr. Anderton so much against it? Why is it so bad to accept charity from those who are willing to give?" Emma wondered, meticulously folding her infant gowns and wrapping them in a beautiful pink baby blanket.

Miss Taylor was thoughtful.

"Emma my dear, you are blessed with many things that most people do not have. Rather than receiving charity, you have the good fortune to give. It may seem natural to you that one should receive as willingly as you give, but bear in mind that most men, especially men of honours, would much rather provide for their families with their own means than relying on the kindness of others. I suspect Mr. Anderton is a good and honourable man, and we must respect his wishes, Emma!" Miss Taylor explained gently.

Emma reflected on Miss Taylor's words. Though her governess indulged her often, over the years Miss Taylor had instilled many sound principles in her young soul. Nature had given Emma a kind heart for the poor and noble intentions to follow what she thought were right. Miss Taylor's constant teaching might not always induce this wilful child to follow her lead, but they often enlightened Emma to see what her young mind was too immature to see.

Emma replied obediently, "Yes, Miss Taylor, I shall respect Mr. Anderton's wishes."

* * *

The Andertons lived in a very small cottage with a sitting room, a kitchen and two small bedchambers. Mr. and Mrs. Anderton, their infant daughter and five-year-old son occupied the bigger of the two small chambers, while their two older daughters shared the other. The furnishing was fittingly simple and plain, but the cottage was maintained very neatly. Mr. Woodhouse might have found the small cottage draughty, but he would surely approve the cleanliness of the house.

Mr. Anderton was out looking for work, and the Anderton's son and younger daughter were plaiting straws in the front of the house when Emma and Miss Taylor walked up to the cottage. The little five-year-old boy and the eleven-year-old girl ran inside the house to tell their mama that their expected visitors had arrived.

"Mama… Mama… they are here… they are here!" both children lunged excitedly.

Holding her little infant in her arms, Mrs. Anderton rushed to the threshold to receive their guests.

"Miss Woodhouse, Miss Taylor! It is so kind of you to call upon us again!" Mrs. Anderton greeted her guests wholeheartedly.

"How do you do, Mrs. Anderton?" Miss Taylor asked with the kindest regard.

"How do you do, Mrs. Anderton?" Emma smiled warmly at Mrs. Anderton with as much kindness as her governess. "May I hold the baby, Mrs. Anderton, may I?" She handed the toys and chapbooks to the expectant five and eleven-year-olds, and could hardly wait to reach out her hands for the baby.

"Certainly, Miss Woodhouse!" Carefully placing her infant daughter in Emma's cradle, Mrs. Anderton said, "Here you are, I just suckled little Ella, she is content and happy at the moment, perfect time for you to hold her!" The mother smiled at both her baby and her young guest.

"Then you must have some beef-tea, Mrs. Anderton, it will replenish you in time for Ella's next feeding, the nourishment will be good for both you and the baby. Pray Miss Taylor, let Mrs. Anderton has her beef-tea!" Emma said excitedly one moment, and at the next cooing and cuddling the tiny infant in her arms.

While Mrs. Anderton and Miss Taylor visited each other, Emma gladly played the role of a nursery maid. She walked around the small house, singing and humming nursery songs to the tiny babe, and swaying the little bundle of sweetness in gentle motion until she fell peacefully asleep. And when her arms grew tired, with the hostess most grateful permission, Emma walked into Mrs. Anderton's chamber and laid little Ella gently in her crib. With the palm of her hand, Emma smoothed the baby's soft feathery hair and laid the pretty pink blanket over her little tummy. She stood quietly next to the crib watching the infant's small chest rising and falling for several moments until a low whisper from behind caught her ears. She turned around.

The Andertons' eldest daughter, Agnes, was peering through the narrow opening of the chamber door. She was wiggling her finger beckoning Emma to follow her.

Agnes, according to Mrs. Anderton, was a year older than Emma, but at age fifteen, due to her poor constitution, the peasant girl had a much smaller frame than the young Hartfield Mistress, who had just turned fourteen the month before. During Emma and Miss Taylor's past visits at the Andertons, Agnes was either busy weaving and doing handicrafts to earn extra money to supplement the family's dismal income or resting languidly in her bed avoiding their guests. Though Agnes had scarcely spoken more than ten words to her visitors, she had often stolen glances at Emma while tending her chores. Emma had found Agnes's grey eyes and dark hair very pretty, and the unusual air in her fragile frame had attracted a keen curiosity in Emma for the Anderton's eldest daughter.

Curious Emma could not resist but to follow the wiggly finger of her young hostess.

* * *

They had gone outside the cottage and came around to the back of the house stopping next to a basket with a rag covering the content inside.

"Do you…" a dry cough interrupted Agnes, "Do… you like…" another cough came from the girl, "do you like puppies?"

"Of course!" Emma answered without even a second thought, "I love puppies!"

"Good," Agnes said dryly, gazing at the covered content of the basket. She bent and reached a hand for the rag (Emma's eyes widened,) then she lifted the rag from the basket revealing a little spaniel pup curling up like a fuzzy fur-ball sleeping inside.

Emma's eyes sparkled instantly; she knelt down next to the golden furry and exclaimed, "She is _beautiful_!"

"It is a _he_!" Agnes said coolly, another cough came from the pale-faced girl.

The spaniel pup had been sleeping undisturbed under the cover, and was now awakening to the gentle touches of a pair of delicate hands.

"He is adorable!" Emma's soft hands stroked the puppy gently, "May I hold him?"

"Hum, hum" Agnes nodded.

With as much care and tenderness as holding baby Ella, Emma gathered up the golden fur-ball and snuggled him in her arms. The little puppy wriggled sprightly in Emma's arms squirming up to her chin, sniffed at her neck and face with his flat brown nose, and once he felt safe in her cradle, the pup thoroughly licked her soft chin with his slippery tongue tickling her to many giggles. Wishing for a better look at his puppy face, Emma pulled the spaniel a little away to stop the tickling, the puppy's eyes began to open and caught her attention immediately – the tinge of blue in his eyes seemed unusual – she looked up at Agnes.

Agnes nodded. "He is blind."

"_Poor_ puppy!" Emma clasped the golden pup to her heart again and stroked it with even more tenderness.

"That was why he was thrown away!" Agnes said helplessly.

"He _was_?" astounded Emma.

"I found him in the field this morning," said Agnes.

"How could anyone be so _cruel_ to a puppy?" Emma asked indignantly. She turned tender again as she rubbed the little puppy head, "You _poor_ little thing!"

"No one ever wants a blind puppy, you know!" explained the peasant girl, retrieving the pup from Emma's hands.

"But you do!" Emma interjected.

Agnes laughed ruefully, "Me? Does not count!" she shook her head. "We barely have enough food even for ourselves; my Papa would never let me keep a puppy!"

"Then what will happen to him?" Emma asked anxiously.

Agnes shrugged. "Do you want him?"

"_Me_?"

"Yes, _you_ – if you want him, you can have him!"

"Of course I want him!" Emma replied instantly.

"Here!" The Anderton girl quickly handed the pup to Emma.

Emma reached her hands for the pup, but then stopped in midway. Shaking her head regretfully, she said, "My Papa would never let me keep him either!"

"_Why_? You must be rich enough to feed the whole village! Why would your papa not let you keep him?"

"My Papa thinks all animals are filthy! Since this puppy is blind and so young, he must be kept inside, and my Papa would never let me keep an animal inside the house!"

"Then… "Agnes frowned, "I must take him back to the field!"

"No! Pray do not take him back to the field, foxes will snatch and eat him!" pleaded Emma.

"I cannot keep him here!" Agnes's frown deepened.

"Let me think…" Emma put on her wit and thought for a moment. A brilliant idea came to her! She grinned, "Yes, I want him!"

"Good, he is yours!" Agnes's slim face looked relieved, reaching out to hand the puppy to Emma.

Emma shook her head and refused - again!

"I cannot take the puppy from you."

"Why _not_?" Agnes was dumbfounded.

"You found him in the field, he is _your_ puppy."

"But you just said that you wanted him!"

"Yes, I do, which is why I shall _buy_ him from you!" announced the young Hartfield Mistress.

"Buy him from me! Are you _mad_?" Agnes was sure that this rich girl had lost her mind. "Who would wish to pay money for a blind puppy?"

"Why _not_?" Emma replied a-matter-of-factly. "How often do you see a blind puppy in anyone's possession?"

"Never!"

"See - That means blind puppies are rare, and rare things are like treasure, treasures worth good money!" Emma declared.

"You ought to be joking!" Agnes found this rich girl ridiculous!

"No, I am not!" stated Emma.

"I cannot take your money for giving you a blind puppy!" returned Agnes.

"In that case, I shall not take the puppy from you!" Emma was determined.

"Well… in that case, I shall take him back to the field and let foxes snatch him away!" Agnes said airily, hoping to scare the rich girl to take the pup.

"Well then – take him back, see if I care!" Emma lifted up her chin and looked the other way.

"_Argh_!" Agnes's face turned red. "_Fine_! I shall sell him to you!"

"Very well!" Emma smiled brightly.

"A farthing would do!" Agnes said hastily, trying to hand the puppy to Emma again.

Emma shook her head, refusing the puppy – still!

"What do you want now?" Agnes's thin patience was wearing thinner.

"As I said, rare puppies worth good money – a farthing would not do!"

"_Fine, fine, fine_! Give me whatever you want!" Agnes wished the rich girl would just take the puppy and leave!

Emma reached into her dress pocket and produced two small coins. She put them in Agnes's palm.

Just one look at the coins, Agnes jumped. "Are you _mad_?" Her eyes went wild. "Two guineas are more money than all the weaving I would get for months… I cannot take them… no, I cannot!" She quickly shoved the coins back into Emma's hand.

"Well then – you should take the puppy to the field now, and let him get eaten by foxes!" Emma said coolly.

This rich girl was impossible! Agnes was certain. She wished she had not spoken to her, not shown her the puppy! She wished her papa would let her keep the pup, she wished she did not have to take him back to the field, she wished the puppy would not be snatched by foxes, or wolves or anything... she wished she did not care so much about the blind pup... she wished she did not care at all...

But - she did!

Agnes sighed and said dejectedly, "_Fine_ – give me the coins."

Emma smiled triumphantly and handed the shiny gold coins to Agnes.

"My Papa will be furious when he finds out that I took money from a rich girl!' The Anderton girl grumbled as she handed the spaniel fur-ball to Emma.

"You silly goose! Your papa must not disapprove of what you did. You did not take money from me. You see, you _sold_ your property to me, a perfectly legitimate…" Emma paused, trying to recall how Mr. Knightley would call this, "ah... a perfectly legitimate _business_... ah... Yes! _Business transaction_! Your papa should be proud of the profit that you made!"

Agnes was speechless – shaking her dismayed head at this nonsensical girl!

"Oh!" Emma remembered, handing the spaniel back to Agnes. "I cannot take the puppy with me yet!"

"Huh!" Agnes wondered what was in the rich girl's head now.

"I told you that my Papa would not let me keep the puppy inside the house… I cannot bring him with me, for my governess dislikes going against my Papa's wishes, and she surely will try to persuade me to give up the puppy…"

"Then what will you do?"

"Humph... I shall come back for the puppy... you just wait for my return!"

* * *

"Miss Taylor, sir" the Donwell footman came into the library and announced.

Too anxious to be sent for, Miss Taylor had followed the footman to the library. She immediately emerged from behind and curtsied to the gentlemen hastily.

"Mr. Knightley, Mr. Larkins. I am terribly sorry for interrupting!" she apologised, looking pale.

"You are not interrupting, Miss Taylor." Mr. Knightley got up from his desk and bowed to the Hartfield governess, the paleness of her face alarmed him. "William Larkins and I have just concluded our meeting."

William Larkins bowed politely to Miss Taylor, "I beg your pardon ma'am. Permit me to wish you a good-day." Inclining his head at Mr. Knightley,"Good-day, sir" with three portable account books under his arms, the bailiff exited the library.

"Is everything well at Hartfield, Miss Taylor?" as soon as his bailiff left, Mr. Knightley asked with concerns.

"Have you seen Emma, Mr. Knightley?" Miss Taylor was desperate for an answer.

Startled by the inquiry, Mr. Knightley replied, "No, I have not seen Emma at all today. Is she unwell?"

"Oh!" Miss Taylor covered her face with her hands in despair, "Then where is she?"

"What happened, Miss Taylor? What happened to Emma?" The distressing expression on Miss Taylor's face had set Mr. Knightley on a worrying-streak.

The governess began with tremors in her voice, "Shortly after we came back from the Andertons this morning, Emma said she wished to take a walk by herself… and of course I let her… I always do, Mr. Knightley… you know how nothing could keep that child inside for very long… she said she would not be gone for long, she would not even take a light shawl with her, she said it was summer, far too warm for a shawl... fortunately Mr. Woodhouse did not notice she left without a shawl… and I did not think she would go far… so I let her… but she had never gone this long by herself, Mr. Knightley... never in the years since I have been her governess..." Miss Taylor suddenly burst into tears.

The governess had seldom gone into hysterics like this, and the calm manner that she always wore was completely vanished. Her distress had made her an entirely different person. She could not seem to get to the point. Mr. Knightley had no choice but to interrupt her.

"How long had she been gone?" he asked precisely.

"It has been more than three hours, Mr. Knightley… Emma had never gone more than a little longer than an hour whenever she went by herself… it's been so long… where could she be? What could happen to her... what shall I do if anything happen to her, Mr. Knightley?"

"Have you been to the field where Mrs. Isabel is?" Mr. Knightley asked pointedly.

"I have looked everywhere… the field, Mrs. Isabel's, the streams, the river, the shrubberies, I even sent Kate to the Bates and she came back saying that Emma had never set foot there today… Mr. Knightley, where could she be?" Anxious tears kept pouring out of Miss Taylor's eyes.

"Pray, keep calm, Miss Taylor! Emma should not be far."

It was one thing to tell Miss Taylor to keep calm, but an entirely different matter to keep calm within himself! Mr. Knightley was fully aware that Emma knew Highbury like the back of her hands; she could not be lost in this town. And as the governess had said, Emma had never been gone for longer than a little over an hour, for she knew her father fretted over not knowing her whereabouts. Being gone for more than three hours on her own was unimaginable to him. But he would find her – whatever it took, he must find her!

They had hastened out of the library into the main entrance hall of the Abbey. Mr. Knightley asked hurriedly as he rushed to put on his hat and picked up his walking stick, "Does Mr. Woodhouse know how long Emma has been gone?"

"No! Not yet. He was still taking his nap when I came looking for Emma. But he should be waking up soon and asking for her… oh, what shall I do, Mr. Knightley?"

"Go back to Hartfield, Miss Taylor. Stay by Mr. Woodhouse, and if he asked for Emma, tell him that she is at Donwell and I shall bring her back soon."

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley… thank you… pray bring Emma back, I beg of you... bring her back!"

Mr. Knightley nodded resolutely and vanished into the air.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

Mr. Knightley had looked everywhere - He had gone back to all the places where Miss Taylor had been and the ones that she had not. He had even gone to the market, the Ford's, Mrs. Goddard's school, the vicarage - no one had seen Miss Woodhouse anywhere. Over the years, Emma had discovered herself many hiding places, but Mr. Knightley had uncovered all of them either through coaxing her or finding them himself. He had gone to all her hiding places, and wracked his brain thinking where else she could be, but everywhere he looked there was not a trace of her. He was beginning to come to the dire conclusion that wherever she might be, she must not be there at her own will! The thought that she was abducted had shaken him so much that he quickly shoved it to the back of his mind. Nevertheless, she had been gone for over five hours now, the possibility of abduction was increasing by the hour; and what if it was not ransom that her abductors wanted… what if they hurt her, took her away from Surrey… what if they sold her to the highest bidder – the daunting thoughts afflicted him, it felt like someone was ripping him apart!

But - to find his friend, he must think rationally and keep calm - Yes - keep calm! He inhaled a deep breath, uncluttered his mind, and resolved: He must look further out in the vicinity and summon the constable for help, and if he must, he would call for peace-officers and magistrates in other regions to search for his friend. But first, he must go back to Donwell to retrieve General, his riding horse, to ride out farther into the night.

* * *

When he reached Donwell, the sun was beginning to set. Perhaps, he thought, if he hastened even more, there would still be some light left when he searched further out in the region. He hurried to the stable, but was surprised to find that the door was left ajar – it piqued him, for Joseph would never neglect to latch the stable door. What happened? He wondered. He pushed the door open and walked in; an odd sense that something was amiss came over him.

It was quiet, except for the blowing and snorting noises of the horses. He walked to the stall where General was standing contentedly. The horse nickered as soon as he saw his master coming at him, pleading for tender affection that his master was always very generous to give. But, today, Mr. Knightley had no time nor spirit to oblige his horse; he gave one helpless pat on General's neck as he turned to reach for the saddle – that was when he heard the noise.

Did General make that noise – that soft, weak noise? Impossible! His horse was a robust beast; even his snorting was stronger than _that_, the noise sounded like the whimper of a puppy, not a beast. He looked around, but the ember light of the setting sun was too weak to light the entire stable, he could not see the stalls at the far end.

He heard the whimper again! It was certainly not coming from his General – he saw his horse nickering at him when the whimper came. It was maddening! He had no time to waste, but whatever it was, he must ascertain that there was not a disaster waiting to happen in the stable. He hushed General and listened carefully. A very soft whimper came again and this time he caught the direction of where it came from. The whimpers lingered and he traced the sound. It came from one of the stalls down at the end of the stable. He walked down the long row of stalls cautiously and very quietly, did not wish the intruder (if there was one) to notice him and fled. Each stall he walked past seemed to make his steps even quieter and heart beat faster. He came to the second to the last stall - it was empty! Very slowly - he proceeded forward.

He grasped his walking stick even tighter and lifted it up preparing to defend himself. One more step and he reached the last stall. _Nothing_! - could have prepared him for what he saw next.

There _SHE _was!

The very person he had spent the last three hours searching for, the same person for whom he nearly launched a massive search in the region, the precious friend whom he thought was abducted and would have chased to the end of the earth to find! And – _this_ person happened to be curling up cosily with a golden puppy sleeping like an angel on a bed of hay in his stable!

There was a conglomerate of feelings he could have burst out had Emma not been sleeping sweetly in front of his eyes. Had she been hiding in his stable all these hours? Was this her notion of a game of hide and seek? Outrageous! Unbelievable! Was he mad? Oh No! _Furious_ - He was furious at her! Did she have the slightest inkling of the devastation she had put her father, Miss Taylor… and… and _him_ through? Did she know that he had spent the last three hours searching for her like a mad man, and would have kept searching whatever it would cost him until he found her? And to think that she was abducted by some despicable villain and be lost forever was like plunging his soul into the eternal fire of hell!

Oh, yes! He must let her have a piece of his mind. He would not be deficient in his scolding, and he would lecture her till her face turn purple – he would do that, he promised he would as soon as she awoke!

The gentleman backed away quietly from the stall and began to pace up and down the stable waiting for Emma to awaken. It had been twenty minutes and finally there were sounds of movements. He peered into the stall and saw that the spaniel pup had rolled away from Emma's embrace and stumbled back to the slumbering angel, sniffing and licking at her hand.

Emma was slowly waking up to the wet tickles, she stretched out her back and limbs like a little kitten, and a lazy yawn broke out of her face. She rubbed her sleepy eyes, and when she opened them, her luminous smile beamed, "There you are!" Clasping the golden fur-ball to her cheek, she gave him a tender kiss, all without noticing that her grown-up friend was standing only couple yards away.

Mr. Knightley was preparing himself for the lecture of Emma Woodhouse's fourteen-years-lifetime. His arms crossed vehemently in front of his chest, his lips compressed to a severe arch, and his frown was so harsh that a deep crease was formed between his brows; at any moment he was going to let his mind spilled all over this young lady!

_But - _when the object of his scolding looked up and saw him, the innocence in her eyes utterly caught him without his guard! Could such mischief have come from the owner of those innocent eyes? Could the person, whom he had known all her life, who loved harmless pranks but with a heart so kind that she would not even step on an ant, capable of conjuring up such atrocious scheme? And when he saw her brilliant, entrancing smile beckoning at him… all he managed to say was...

"I have been looking all over for you for the past three hours, Emma!"

He wondered what happened to his scolding, where his lecture that would turn Emma's face purple had gone! He sighed – perhaps the most important thing was that she was safe and everything else did not signify!

"For the last three hours!" astounded Emma. "Have I slept that long?"

"You have been missing from Hartfield for more than six hours, Emma!"

"_Six_ hours!" She was mortified, her sleepy eyes were no longer sleepy, "Oh no, oh no, oh no! Papa must be worrying sick!" Emma was in a panic, which Mr. Knightley could not help but thought she was well-served.

"Where have you been, Emma? Why were you sleeping in my stable? And where did that puppy come from?" He asked calmly, sitting down on the bed of hay next to his once-was-lost friend.

"It is a very long story, Mr. Knightley..." Emma said guiltily.

"And I have all night to listen, Emma! Miss Taylor said you went for a walk after you returned from the Andertons and you told her that you would not be long. Tell me what happened after you left Hartfield, how could a short walk last six hours long?" Mr. Knightley folded his arms, fully expecting a satisfactory explanation (or anything less would not do!) from his ever amusing friend.

"Ah... actually... it was not a simple walk, Mr. Knightley..."

"_That_ - I reckoned," Mr. Knightley nodded patiently, "Go on."

Emma took a deep breath before she began. "After I left Hartfield, I went back to the Andertons" she saw the quizzical frown on Mr. Knightley and hurried, "you see, Mr. Knightley... I had to go back to fetch the puppy" she pointed at the spaniel on her lap, "that I bought from Agnes."

"Who is Agnes?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"She is the eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Anderton."

"Why did she sell her puppy to you?"

"No, the puppy was not hers. Agnes found it in the field this morning."

"Did she endeavour to seek the owner of the pup?" Mr. Knightley questioned.

"I do not know, but even if she did, it would have been no use!"

"Why so?"

"Because the puppy was abandoned, Mr. Knightley, he is blind, his owner did not want him!" Emma said softly, feeling sad for the puppy. Mr. Knightley reached a hand for the spaniel and held his small head still gently to examine his blue-tinged eyes. He concurred.

"Why did Agnes not keep the puppy to herself?" asked Mr. Knightley, in a serious tone.

"Her Papa would not let her!" Emma was taken aback by the dryness in his voice.

"And she wished to sell the blind puppy to you instead?" Mr. Knightley looked sceptical.

"No, Agnes wished to _give_ the puppy to me!" Emma said ardently, making sure the truth was told.

"But you said you bought it from her."

"Yes, I did!"

"How much did you pay for the puppy, Emma?" Mr. Knightley thought something was amiss, he hoped not much was swindled out of his very trusting friend.

"Two guineas," Emma replied simply.

"_Two_ _guinea__s_!" Mr. Knightley cried indignantly, "Emma, I fear that you have been defrauded!"

Emma looked bewilderedly at him, but then suddenly realized Mr. Knightley had completely misunderstood her tale.

"No, oh no! Mr. Knightley, pray do not think ill of Agnes. She was the honest one in the tale; it was me who was the contrived one!"

He narrowed his eyes at her, waiting for an explanation.

"You see, Mr. Knightley, Agnes did not wish the puppy to die, surely he could not have survived on his own out in the field, so she brought the puppy home. But the Andertons are poor, they barely have enough food for themselves, Agnes could never have kept the puppy. And that was why she wished to give the puppy to me. And Mr. Anderton dislikes charity, if not because of his new infant daughter, he would have never accepted anything from anyone, particularly money!"

Mr. Knightley could now see where her story was going; he was silently pleased.

"So I contrived a scheme which I insisted on buying the puppy from her. Agnes did not even wish for a single farthing, but I insisted on giving her the guineas or I would leave without the puppy. You see, Mr. Knightley, by buying the puppy I was able to give a little help to the family, and as this was a _business_ _transaction_, I doubted that Mr. Anderton would disapprove!"

"A _business transaction_?" Mr. Knightley raised an amused eyebrow, stifling his laughs.

"Of course!" lifting her chin and looking the other way, the young lady was annoyed by the gentleman.

"_Ahem__,_" the gentleman cleared his throat, "My apology. Yes it was a business transaction," nodding approvingly, "one that was very well done indeed! That was very clever _and_ kind of you, Emma!"

Emma's annoyance was gone, but she looked up at Mr. Knightley and lamented, "Unfortunately, I have myself a dilemma now!"

"You cannot take the puppy home!" Mr. Knightley inferred.

"No, I cannot! Papa would never approve of having a puppy in the house. But Mr. Knightley, Wobble..."

"_Wobble_?" The name amused him so much that he interrupted Emma abruptly. "I always find the names you give your animal friends amusing. Pray tell me, why the name?"

Emma's face lit up and a giggle slipped out of her. She placed the puppy on the ground to let him stand. The spaniel was so young that his legs were still feeble, and no matter how much the little golden pup tried, he kept sliding and tumbling flat on his furry stomach. But when the puppy did finally manage to stand and took a step or two, the little creature shook and wobbled before tumbling down in the most endearing way!

"Is not he _adorable_, Mr. Knightley?" Emma asked brightly and Mr. Knightley smiled warmly to agree.

"As I was saying" Emma continued, "Wobble is blind; he cannot defend himself, not just yet. He cannot stay outside on his own, foxes and wolves will snatch him away! Besides, he is so young, he needs his mama... or someone like his mama to take care of him..."

"So you came to Donwell… _because_…" Mr. Knightley patiently prompted.

"Because..." Emma was abashed, looking at Mr. Knightley through her lashes, "because... I thought … ah… I thought... you might be… willing to take Wobble in, Mr. Knightley!"

Mr. Knightley's mouth quirked, "I wonder why that did _not_ surprise me!"

Emma smiled sheepishly up at him. "Will you, Mr. Knightley? Will you take Wobble?" She put her own hazel puppy eyes to work.

Mr. Knightley was quiet, which made Emma very nervous – what if he said no, then where could she take Wobble?

Now it was time to put Wobble to work – Emma lifted him off her lap and held him up close to Mr. Knightley's face. The little furry sniffed at the gentleman for a brief moment, then immediately attached his tiny slippery tongue to the gentleman's face and gave him some very serious affectionate tickles.

Mr. Knightley chuckled and let the puppy tasted his face thoroughly. Removing the pup from his face and Emma's hand, he let the little warm fuzzy lay in his lap.

"He likes you, Mr. Knightley! Wobble likes you! Would you pray take him, Mr. Knightley, would you?"

"You know, Emma," Mr. Knightley said, running his fingers through the fine coat of the spaniel, "you said Wobble needed his mama, or someone like his mama, but Donwell is a bachelor estate," repressing his smile, "are you certain that this is where you wish him to be?"

"To be sure!" The fourteen-year-old was radiant. "I cannot think of a better home for Wobble, Mr. Knightley. I promise I shall come to Donwell everyday to take care of him, to play with him, and to teach him tricks!"

"What do you know about teaching dog tricks, Emma?" Mr. Knightley was amused.

"Of course I know! I used to watch you teach Bull's Eye commands." Emma lowered her voice imitating from memory, "_Sit, Bull's Eye _or_ Steady, Bull's Eye _or_ Down, Boy_!"

Mr. Knightley laughed, "How could you remember all that? You were barely three when I taught him those commands!"

"Oh, I remember everything, Mr. Knightley! I loved Bull's Eye, he was my friend as much as he was yours; I still remember the great joy I had playing with him and riding on him every time I came!"

"Hum," Mr. Knightley reflected fondly, "Bull's Eye was a great friend!"

His mind wandered off to the image of his Harlequin Great Dane. Bull's Eye was Mr. Knightley's friend, companion, and faithful servant, from the day he was born till the day his health failed him. He used to follow his master everywhere, from every corner at Donwell Abbey, every walk, every wild run and hunting expedition, to every tenant visit and stroll in the fields examining crops. While William Larkins was known as Mr. Knightley's right-hand man, Bull's Eye was the Donwell Master's left-hand guard. The Great Dane loved children, and like many of his human counterparts, little Emma was his favourite of all. Though he stood taller and larger than most children, the hound was a gentle giant at heart. Little Emma had always insisted that Bull's Eye was her horse (not a pony or a dog!) boarding at Donwell. She used to insist on riding him around the estate whenever she visited, and the giant would let her willingly and be delighted at her service. He would wrestle with the happy child, be mindful of not crushing her with his powerful jaw or robust frame, and he would lick the precious child with his slobbery tongue till she giggled silly. And when the bundle of joy was exhausted and fell asleep on a whim, Bull's Eye would lay down quietly next to the sweet little angel to keep her company and guard her with his life - much like his own master would do for the very child!

Emma noticed Mr. Knightley's absorbed countenance. She laid her hand on his arm gently and asked, "Do you miss Bull's Eye, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley nodded slowly. "Yes... I do..."

"I do, too..." Emma looked Mr. Knightley in the eyes sincerely, "do you think Wobble could be your friend... like Bull's Eye used to be... and keep you company at Donwell?"

Mr. Knightley's contemplative face broke into a delightful smile, "I think _that_ could be arranged."

Emma smiled luminously!

"But," he looked mischievously at her, "you cannot ride on him like you used to with Bull's Eye!"

She wrinkled her nose at him. "I think I have grown a _little_ too big to even ride on a Great Dane, Mr. Knightley!" She said saucily, "Perhaps I shall let Wobble ride on me instead!"

"Humph – that would be an amusing sight, would not it?" Mr. Knightley chuckled.

"Very well," the gentleman handed Wobble back to Emma and stood up. "I'd better take you back to Hartfield before your father thinks I have abducted you!"

Emma looked at him quizzically.

"I told Miss Taylor to tell your father that you were at Donwell – _while _– I was looking for you like a mad man!"

Emma blushed guiltily.

"Come," Mr. Knightley reached his hand to help Emma up from the hay.

"_Owwww_!" Emma cried out in pain.

"What is the matter, Emma?" Her scream shocked him to a start. He knelt down immediately to look at the ankle that her hands were rubbing.

Her face turned pale as the sharp pain was too much to bear. She pulled the hem of her dress a little above her ankle for Mr. Knightley to have a better look at the source of her pain. Even under her silk stocking, the swelling and black and blue bruises were prominently displayed. She screamed, "It hurts... Mr. Knightley... it hurts!" even at his gentlest touch.

"Dear Emma! What happened? How did you hurt yourself so badly?" Mr. Knightley asked earnestly.

"I have not finished my story, Mr. Knightley..." Holding back her tears of pain, Emma continued her tale, "Wobble was thirsty when we came near Donwell. So we came into the stable to let him have some water from the trough. Then we played for a while in here until we both became fatigue. I thought we would take a small rest before we'd go to the Abbey. I was distracted by Wobble and tripped over the rake." She pointed at the rake lying near the bed of hay. "I fell, could not move... I must have fallen asleep while waiting for someone to come to the stable!"

"Ah! That was why you were sleeping when I saw you!"

Emma nodded sheepishly.

"Humph – in that case, I shall take you back to Hartfield on horseback."

"Can we take Wobble to the Abbey first? He must be hungry by now!"

"Very well. We shall take him to Mrs. Hodges and she will take great care of him for you."

Mr. Knightley went off to saddle General, who was snorting, nickering and getting all excited at his master.

"Ah..." Emma called out. Mr. Knightley turned to look at her curiously.

"Could we ride on Lady Dupree instead?" the young lady made her request to the gentleman, who was wondering what was wrong with his magnificent horse.

Emma read Mr. Knightley's mind, and she explained, "Lady Dupree is sweeter, Mr. Knightley. General is so spirited that last time my stomach nearly turned inside out when you insisted that I rode on him!"

"Fine, Emma!" The gentleman shook his head in amazement and then turned and shrugged at his horse, "Sorry, General! No outing tonight. The young lady" inclining his head toward Emma "wants to ride on your sweetheart instead!" Mr. Knightley rolled his eyes at Emma, only to be returned with a smile that was as saucy as it was brilliant.

Once Lady Dupree was saddled, the gentleman came to the young lady and asked reverently, "Do I have your permission to carry you to the horse, Emma?"

Emma smiled up at Mr. Knightley most satisfactorily - ever since her 'Cattle Breeding Lesson', she had enjoyed being treated like a lady rather than a child by her grown-up friend. "Yes, you do!"

With much care, Mr. Knightley lifted Emma, with Wobble in her arms, off the ground placing her on Lady Dupree, and led the horse and her passengers out of the stable. He then mounted the mare placing himself behind his precious cargos; together they rode off to the Abbey and to Hartfield.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

Their arrival at Hartfield was first received by the enraptured Miss Taylor. The governess had spent hours between her employer's side and the Hartfield front gate anxiously awaiting her charge's return. She cared very little that Emma was carried into the house by their neighbour Mr. Knightley, so long as she was returned safely, the truth could come later, or not.

But it was quite different with the young lady's papa. Mr. Woodhouse had a fright at the sight of his gentleman-friend carrying his youngest daughter into the drawing-room. The nervous father demanded to know what had happened to his dear child! – Her ankle was injured at his stable, sir! Mr. Knightley respectfully replied. – Mr. Perry must be sent for at once! – His Donwell footman had been dispatched to fetch the apothecary to Hartfield. – Why was not his child conveyed home immediately? – It was his fault; he should have brought her home sooner. – The gentleman-neighbour had accepted full responsibilities.

Emma was pained by the scene. She wished her friend did not have to suffer her papa's unjust chastiser; it was her fault and she would have borne the responsibility had not Mr. Knightley told her beforehand that it was best for him to take the blame, as her father was prone to depression, the image of his daughter sleeping in a stable on a bed of hay catching cold and damp surely would cast the father down and possibly unleashed his many maladies; and what was more, the tale of Wobble would be revealed! Mr. Woodhouse might reproach him, but Mr. Knightley trusted that his long-standing friendship with the old gentleman would prevent her father from holding grudges overnight. Mr. Knightley assured Emma that he would return for breakfast the next day, and peace shall surely be restored.

* * *

As promised, Mr. Knightley returned to Hartfield for breakfast the morning after, Mr. Woodhouse received the gentleman in his customary cordial manners – one could never tell that peace was once lost the night before.

However, Mr. Knightley did not return alone... Tucked away in a willow egg-basket was a certain golden fur-ball waiting to be pampered by the young Mistress of Hartfield, who, for her injured ankle, was under strict order by the apothecary to walk as little as possible and must be confined to her bedchamber until her swelling and bruises receded. It was a scheme that Emma had devised during their horseback ride to Hartfield: Mr. Knightley was to transport Wobble concealed in a basket to Hartfield through the small gate by the kitchen, where Miss Taylor would receive and deliver the puppy to Emma's bedchamber, escaping Mr. Woodhouse's notice; and at night, the Donwell Master would retrieve the spaniel through the same way (only in reversed order) before his returning to the Abbey, just so that he could repeat the same act the very next day. Now, why would the very sensible Mr. Knightley be willing to comply with such fanciful secret scheme? _Temporary insanity_! - was the gentleman's sole explanation.

Their scheme went on flawlessly for several days. The old gentleman-father went on merrily living his habitual life undisturbed by the furtive existence of the puppy at Hartfield. With an over abundance of cuddles and kisses, singing of nursery songs, crawling and rolling together on her bedchamber floor, and the patient nursing of one spoonful of milk at a time, Wobble was growing exceedingly well under the tender care of young Emma. Their Timing was perfect as well. When Emma's ankle had completely healed, Wobble was becoming far too lively for Mr. Knightley to transport him in an egg-basket. Their journeys between Donwell and Hartfield were fast becoming wrestling matches of man and cunning little beast. Succumbing to his frustration, the gentleman had at last declared himself no longer _insane_ and declined his part in the secret play.

* * *

Time with Wobble was now spent at the Abbey instead. Daily, Miss Taylor would accompany Emma the one mile journey to Donwell Abbey, the governess would then return to Hartfield to attend to her employer while her charge stayed at the Abbey for most of the afternoon spending time with her puppy. Emma had taught Wobble how to climb stairs, step by step, foot by foot, and let him sniffed at everything and acquainted with everyone at Donwell. They had spent hours exploring the Abbey and its gardens, familiarizing the blind spaniel with his surroundings. In spite of his sightlessness, Wobble was growing just as rumbustious as any sighted canine could be; the little furry loved to run, tumble and roll everywhere. Whereas Emma always took him to the gardens for his walks, Mr. Knightley would take Wobble on a lead on longer walks out in the fields. He had also begun to teach the pup commands – _sit, drop, heel, wait, give -_ needless to say praises and affection were given in abundance to the puppy from both his mistress and his master.

Then one particular afternoon...

In the Donwell library, where behind his enormous writing desk, Mr. Knightley was engrossed in planning the crop harvest in the coming season, and in another corner, Emma and Wobble were practising his newly learnt trick – handshake. The puppy would sit on his tail, and at the sound of his mistress's command '_Hand, hand, B__oy!_' he would lift his front paw for Emma to shake.

Wobble's focus was diverted suddenly; the puppy wagged his tail enthusiastically when he heard his master's voice from the other side of the library.

"Emma, William Larkins will be here shortly, why do not you and Wobble go for a walk in the gardens?" Mr. Knightley spoke without looking up from his work.

"But, Mr. Knightley, we just returned from the gardens half an hour ago! Must we take another walk so soon?" pleaded Emma.

"Ah..." still looking down at his harvesting plan, Mr. Knightley made another suggestion, "Mrs. Mayson has baked Manchester Pudding for you, why do not you ask Mrs. Hodges to serve it in the drawing-room for you?"

"That is very kind of Mrs. Mayson, but I am not hungry, Mr. Knightley!" Emma pouted, sinking down into an armchair with Wobble wriggling in her arms.

"Humph..." Mr. Knightley uttered, searching for another suggestion.

"I know what you are trying to do, Mr. Knightley!" Emma said saucily. "You wish to remove me from the library, do not you? Why is it that you never let me stay in the same room when Mr. Larkins comes?"

Mr. Knightley finally looked up and Emma immediately appealed to his attention by saying, "Mr. Larkins is the sternest man I know! Do you notice that he scowls at me every time?" She was growing cross as she spoke. "I dare say he does not approve of me - he must think you spend far too much time visiting Hartfield with Papa and me!" she frowned, "But I have much more sense than he thinks... I know when to be quiet when I ought to and I promise that if you would let me stay you shall not notice my presence during your meeting!"

Mr. Knightley's eyes sparkled remarkably, "Ah, annoyed that not everyone in Highbury thinks you are wonderful, Miss Woodhouse?"

"Surely not!" she replied, lifting her chin and nose, and looked away.

Mr. Knightley laughed; when he finished laughing, his sensitivity resumed. "You know, Emma, William Larkins does not disapprove of you, nor is he in the habit of approving anyone. That's just the way he is. He does not scowl at you, I assure you..."

Emma interjected, "And _I_ assure you that he _does_ scowl at me, and he frowns at me, you know!" The young Hartfield Mistress wrinkled her nose at the image of the Donwell bailiff frowning at her.

Mr. Knightley shook his head amusingly at his young friend. "He frowns at everyone, Emma. In fact, he frowns even when he smiles."

Searching her memories, Emma muttered, "I do not think I have ever seen him smile..."

"That _is_ my point, Emma – he frowns when he smiles!"

"You are not convincing me, Mr. Knightley! I know he dislikes me!"

Mr. Knightley rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he said, "I shall say this once more, Emma – William Larkins does _not_ dislike you."

"If he does not dislike me... then... is your meeting so secretive that I must be kept away?"

"No, Emma, what we discuss is not so secretive that you must be kept away."

"Then why cannot I stay?" the young lady pressed.

Mr. Knightley compressed his lips for a moment, pondering how much he should tell her. He lowered his voice, almost as if speaking to himself, "It is not _you_ who must be kept away..."

Emma's sharp hearing caught his mumbling. "Then _who_?" her curiosity was piqued.

Mr. Knightley compressed his lips again. Lifting his brows, his gaze travelled from Emma to the golden spaniel on her lap.

Emma was indignant!

"Why must Wobble be kept away?" the young lady demanded. "He is the gentlest puppy one would ever meet, and he does not bark until your ears rung like some dogs do. Look at him - he is such a good-natured well-mannered dog! He will not make but the tiniest noise at your meeting... if I must not be kept away from your meeting, then I insist that Wobble and I stay!" Not that Emma really wished to stay for their meeting, but the thought of her Wobble being slighted irked her, hence she must insist.

Mr. Knightley shook his head at his spoiled friend, who could turn stubborn on a whim when she could not get her way. "Emma, I would not have asked if I did not have a good reason. Just excuse us for the time being, and you and Wobble will be welcomed to return to the library once Larkins leaves."

"But _why_? If Wobble and I must remove from the library, do not we deserve a reason?" She added audaciously, "And if there is not a sufficient reason, both of us _shall_ stay!"

This spoiled child, Mr. Knightley thought, could really try his patience at times! Right then, the footman came in to announce, "Mr. Larkins, sir."

"Send him in," Mr. Knightley supplied.

His eyes immediately beckoned Emma to take Wobble out of the library, but Emma would not comply. She said unyieldingly, "Give us a good reason and we shall leave you two to your meeting!"

Mr. Knightley bit his lip – William Larkins would be walking in any moment and he would not lecture his friend in front of his bailiff – his determination was wavering unexpectedly; with exasperation and haste, he said to Emma, "William Larkins has a fear for canines, Emma! Now, take Wobble somewhere, would you?"

Emma's large hazel eyes widened. "Oh!"

She curtsied with a smile and led her puppy out of the library seconds before William Larkins stepped in.

* * *

"We shall need labourers for these tasks: Reaping, Gathering, Sheaf-making, Stook-building, Raking, Carting, and Gleaning. Has sufficient labour been arranged for all of them, Larkins?" asked Mr. Knightley, running down the list of tasks on his harvesting plan.

"Arrangements have been made for many of the tasks, sir. The labourers are excited to have harvest work already lined up for them before the season begins, I do not anticipate difficulties in employing sufficient labours for the rest of the tasks," William Larkins replied.

"Pools of labourers shall be required for haymaking as well."

"Certainly, Mr. Knightley. Traditionally the tasks of raking up and raking out, building, unbuilding and rebuilding haycocks were carried out mostly by women in the village, but there will be plenty of willing men when the tasks call for more workers."

"Very well. What about the corn harvest? As corn is late-harvesting, once cut, the processing shall be a matter of urgency - we must learn from our lessons last year and outrun the autumn storms."

"Certainly... _sir..._ " something just knocked at the heel of the Donwell bailiff and had taken his mind off his meeting; he paused to see what it was – it was a cricket ball. The distracted bailiff resumed, "Certainly, sir. The cold September last year was most unexpected. The hail storm destroyed most of our ripened corn. Since all our labourers are... _ah_... _are_... " he felt something nudging at his heel - it must be the ball again; he decided to ignore it.

"Since all our labourers are... _ah_... _are_..." the nudging was growing stronger, the bailiff was annoyed. He kept his eyes on the Donwell Master, but out of frustration he swore under his breath, "_Blasted ball!" _

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Knightley asked bewilderedly.

"_Ah_... I am sorry, sir. _Ahem_... as I was saying, since all our labourers are familiar with our rigid sequence, so long as the autumn weather does not deviate too much from its normal course, the corn harvest should not suffer the same fate as it did last... _ah_..._last_... " The nudging had turned into a tugging now and it was far too annoying to ignore, the bailiff looked down - with every intention to kick the ball away.

_Ahhhhh_!

A loud cry bursting out of William Larkins, in fractions of a second, the bailiff flew halfway across the library and hid behind one of the armchairs by the mantelpiece.

Mr. Knightley jumped to his feet searching for the reason of William Larkins' scream – his enormous writing desk had obscured part of the view of the floor, but he could see a cricket ball lying by the curved-leg under the armchair.

"What is the matter, Larkins?" moving away from his desk, Mr. Knightley asked with great concern – he had never heard the unaffected William Larkins screamed like a child before.

"_Ah... ah... sir_..." the bailiff stammered, pointing his trembling finger at the golden canine halfway across the library.

And at that very moment – Behold! The young Mistress of Hartfield entered in.

"There you are, my little boy!" Emma walked over to the spaniel, which was standing and wagging his fluffy tail happily. "I have been looking all over for you, little Wobble!" The young lady picked up the golden puppy, cooing and smiling at him most affectionately.

Then, her eyes travelled to the person behind the armchair, half a giggle leaked out of her while the other half suppressed. "Good afternoon, Mr. Larkins!" Emma curtsied, flaunting the puppy in her arms.

Mr. Knightley narrowed his penetrating eyes as he watched the scene unfolding in front of him.

"Are you well, Mr. Larkins? You look awfully pale today!" Emma asked earnestly, but the amusing gleam in her scintillating eyes did not escape the Master of Donwell – the gentleman was not pleased!

William Larkins took a half-bow nervously, all the while staring at the canine in the young lady's arms.

"Emma, what are you and Wobble doing in the library?" Mr. Knightley asked stiffly.

"Mr. Knightley, Wobble and I were playing fetch outside the library, and the ball rolled off so we came looking for it." Emma managed to say it with a straight face.

"The ball just _happened_ to roll into the library?" asked Mr. Knightley, most suspiciously.

"Of course!" she shrugged. "By and by, has anyone seen a cricket ball lying somewhere?" Emma asked, purposely scanning the room.

William Larkins' frightful stare shifted from the canine to the ball by the curved-leg of the armchair – the very armchair that he was using as a shield.

Following the shift of William Larkins' gaze, the young lady saw the ball and gasped, "Thank you, Mr. Larkins!" She let the puppy down the floor, "Go get it, Boy!" and Wobble took off following the scented trail of the cricket ball fast approaching the armchair – and William Larkins!

The bailiff yelped! With fear in his eyes he ran to the window and wrapped himself behind the heavy drapes.

Midway through his sniffing, Wobble lost his interest in the ball; he began to follow the scent of the person behind the heavy drapes. The spaniel barked and wagged his tail energetically, begging the attention from the owner of the scent he had sniffed!

"Go away... you...you... you ferocious beast... go away!" William Larkins begged.

Wobble seemed to think William Larkins was playing with him, the more movement the frightened bailiff made, the more enthusiastic his barking and wagging became.

Emma giggled joyously! "I think Wobble likes you, Mr. Larkins!"

Cold sweats were dripping from William Larkins' forehead. The poor man looked like he was about to faint.

"Drop, Wobble!" Mr. Knightley commanded sharply.

The spaniel was schooled well – at the sound of his master's command, Wobble immediately dropped to his knees and stayed very still; his enthusiastic barking faded to obedient-whimpers.

"That is enough, Emma!" Mr. Knightley called out sternly.

In two long strides he had reached the golden pup, scooping him up with one hand and the cricket ball the other. Another long stride, he was in front of Emma, whose giggles had faded along with her puppy's barks.

Mr. Knightley took hold of Emma's elbow, half-escorting half-pulling her out of the library. He shut the door behind him before he spoke.

"That was badly done, Emma! How could you do this to William Larkins?" his tone was severe.

Taken aback by his sternness, Emma's pink cheek turned pale. "It was all a joke, Mr. Knightley!" she pleaded hurriedly, "You know I would never mean any harm for anyone... Wobble was so little and gentle, he would not have hurt Mr. Larkins... you could see that, could not you?"

"Have not I told you that William Larkins had a fear for canines?" He looked at her with piercing eyes.

"Yes... but... but I thought '_fear'_ as in '_just a little afraid of dogs__'_... and... " Emma's heart pounded so fast that she could hear it in her ears, "and... I thought after his initial fright, he would not find Wobble fearsome after all... I did not think that Mr. Larkins would be afraid of Wobble the way he did..." she tried hard to explain.

"Emma, William Larkins was attacked by a strayed hound when he was a young boy - the canine dragged him by his leg for several yards before his father was able to stop the attack with a rake. The laceration on his leg was so severe that it had left a deep scar on him not just on his leg, but in his heart! He has been fearful of canines of all kinds and sizes all his life!"

Mr. Knightley turned his back at Emma in frustration.

Emma could not believe what she just heard! What had she done to William Larkins? Her stomach instantly fell into a pit. Her heart had sunk so low that it felt like she could hardly breathe. She reached out her hand to Mr. Knightley, but her blurred vision had made it difficult to distinguish his shoulder from his arm. She dropped her hand, slowly moved inches closer to him, and spoke brokenly to his back in a very small voice.

"I am so very... very... sorry, Mr. Knightley... I did not know..."

She heard his long sigh. Tears of remorse rippled down her cheeks silently. In the same small voice, she whispered to his back again, "Why did you not tell me, Mr. Knightley?"

Without turning around, he said to her, "I did not tell you because there was no reason to bring up this awful tragedy from his past. William Larkins would not wish it, nor would I! And if you would have listened and left us alone, Emma... he would not have to suffer your humiliation!" Though his tone was softer, the disappointment was unmistakable in his voice.

Mr. Knightley opened the door, entered into the library without turning, shutting it behind him quietly, leaving the fourteen-year-old to her own horrid reflection.

How could she... how could she do this to William Larkins? She kept repeating Mr. Knightley's question to herself. Why did not she listen to him and leave them alone? Did she not see the fear in William Larkins' eyes? Why did she let Wobble run after the poor man? How unforgivable she was in subjecting William Larkins to such humiliation!

She felt disgusted at herself! She was thoroughly ashamed of her own conduct. Large tear drops were streaming down her cheeks. Sadly, she bent down to pick up the whimpering Wobble in her arms and muffled her loud sobs in the puppy's soft coat.

* * *

An hour later, inside the Donwell library, the meeting between the Master of Donwell and his bailiff was coming to close.

"And have you placed the order for the gloves for the reapers, Larkins? The gloves will prevent their hands being pricked by thistles as they curved them round the corn when using the serrated sickle."

"The order was placed yesterday, sir."

"Very well."

"Would that be all, Mr. Knightley?"

"That would be all, Larkins."

Mr. Knightley went forward to open the library door for his bailiff. And when he opened the door, he was surprised to see Emma standing outside the library with her head hung low.

Emma slowly looked up, her nose and eyes were red.

"May I speak with Mr. Larkins?" she asked quietly.

"I shall be waiting outside," Mr. Knightley said softly, removing himself from the scene.

William Larkins and Emma were standing across from each other. The fearfulness in the man's eyes that Emma saw an hour ago had vanished, but the disdainful stare he had for the fourteen-year-old was undeniably visible. Emma's own shame had shrunk her to about an inch tall; she could barely meet the bailiff's eyes, but the stolen glimpses of his disdainful stare had chilled her entire person to shivers. Nonetheless, she had stood outside of the library for a whole hour waiting for this moment – whatever it would cost her, she must mend her own folly!

Looking down at her wrung-hands, she began humbly, "Mr. Larkins, I am _terribly_, _terribly_ sorry for what I did!"

The bailiff's silence, as well as his scornful look, was unwavering.

Emma sneaked a small glance at his hard face and quickly looked back down. In a voice that fully reflected how small she felt for what she did, she continued.

"I know my conduct was inexcusable and I am ashamed of what I did! I shall not blame you if you shall hate me for the rest of your life – but pray be assured that I never meant to do you harm. It was a childish prank of utter insensitivity - I should _never_ have done it! I only... only hope that somewhere... somewhere in your heart... you would find the grace to forgive me!"

* * *

Mr. Knightley had been standing outside the library waiting patiently, and, anxiously for his dear friend and faithful bailiff. William Larkins was a man of few words, though Mr. Knightley could not hear his reply to Emma's apology, he heard every word that his young friend had said. Her remorsefulness was unmistakable. And somehow, he felt part of Emma's guilt in himself as well. Why did he tell her that William Larkins had a fear for canines? If he had not betrayed the intelligence, she would not have fallen into the temptation of turning it into a senseless act!

Nonetheless, what was done could not be undone. As much as he was infuriated at Emma for putting William Larkins in the dreadful situation, he was proud of her for having the courage to own her mistakes. And that was the good-natured Emma Woodhouse that he knew, that he was so very fond of – Heaven knew how her recklessness exasperated him at times, but she was never heartless, and her sensibility had never allowed her to overlook her own faults!

Ere long, William Larkins and Emma emerged from the library. The bailiff was well known for his expressionless face, which, Mr. Knightley felt exceedingly relieved when he saw that it had resumed its usual state. Emma's bright red nose had faded to pink, and her swollen eyes no longer red, but soft hazel. The gentleman could almost see the relieved smile hidden behind her tear-stained cheeks!

"Good-day, Miss Woodhouse." William Larkins bowed politely to Emma, inclining his head to Mr. Knightley, and took his leave.

"Good-day, Mr. Larkins!" Emma curtsied gratefully in return.

Mr. Knightley and Emma were now standing alone in the hallway, silently.

"I take that..." Mr. Knightley spoke softly, "it went well?"

Emma nodded awkwardly; she was too ashamed to meet his eyes.

"It is time for me to escort you back to Hartfield," Mr. Knightley said kindly.

Still looking down, "Thank you, Mr. Knightley!" said Emma, in her very small voice.

"You're welcome, Emma," Mr. Knightley said casually, arching his back and stretching his arms. "After being trapped in the library for the entire day, a mile walk would surely do me good."

"_No_..." Emma finally looked up. She reached a hand and laid it on his forearm. Looking into his eyes, she said with great sincerity, "_Thank you_, Mr. Knightley!"

He understood her meaning.

"You're _very _welcome, Emma!" returned Mr. Knightley, with the warmest regard.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you very much for reading! :-)


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

_"Bye, baby Bunting,  
__Father's gone a-hunting,  
__Mother's gone a-milking,  
__Sister's gone a-silking,  
__Brother's gone to buy a skin  
__To wrap the baby Bunting in..._

_Bye, baby Bun...t...in...g..._

"Mrs. Anderton," Emma whispered, "little Ella is asleep; I shall lay her down in her crib." Mrs. Anderton returned the most grateful smile to her gracious guest.

For nearly half an hour, while Mrs. Anderton and Miss Taylor were visiting each other, Emma was cuddling baby Ella in her arms, speaking tales and singing songs to her with joy and tenderness. Now that the sweet little infant was asleep, Emma laid her down gently in her crib and covered her with the soft pink blanket. She quietly exited Mrs. Anderton's chamber and went to seek another person whom she had been looking forward to see.

She followed the intermittent coughing sound and came to the back of the house, where the poultry yard was. Agnes was feeding the chickens when Emma found her.

"You know," Emma spoke as she approached the eldest Anderton girl, "you ought to take care of your coughs!"

Agnes looked up to see who it was, then looked back down nonchalantly. "Why should a rich girl like you care?" the pale-faced girl said coolly.

"Why _should__n't_ I?" Emma protested, "You seem to be coughing more! If you do not take care, it could consume you!" she said it earnestly.

_That rich girl really did care_! - Agnes thought to herself. She replied indifferently though, "Pooh! I have been coughing for a long time, that's just the way I am."

Emma shrugged and her gaze shifted. "Are they new?" she asked curiously, gesturing the chickens in the poultry yard.

The fifteen-year-old nodded, "Remember the _profit_ I made from the puppy?"

"Ah...yes..." replied Emma, softly.

"They are part of it," said Agnes plainly, keeping her eyes on the chickens.

_Success_! Her scheme to help the family worked excellently – young Emma rejoiced! She was so happy that she had to go into a coughing fit to disguise her happy smiles.

"Are you well? Why are you coughing?" Agnes turned to Emma and asked with great concerns.

"Yes, yes... I am well, thank you!" still trying to hide her jovial smiles, Emma assured Agnes.

The Anderton girl turned her attention back to the task at hand. Silence came while Emma watched Agnes feeding the chickens.

"Do not you wish to know if the puppy is well?" Emma finally asked – she had been waiting for Agnes to inquire after Wobble, but the older girl seemed to excel at keeping silence!

"Are not you going to tell me regardless?" replied the fifteen-year-old dryly.

"Well" Emma's face lit up "Wobble is..."

"_Wobble_?" Agnes winced.

"Yes, Wobble! That is the puppy's name... you do not like it?"

Agnes shrugged.

"Well," Emma resumed excitedly, "Wobble is growing exceedingly well. He is now able to eat boiled potatoes and cabbages, and a little meat too - minced lamb is his favourite, and of course he drinks milk as well! We take walks in the gardens every day; he knows his way so well that I do not even need to put him on a lead when we walk. He runs - really fast! He has the most _adorable_ bark – not the sharp annoying bark that hurts your ears, but a gentle and beckoning, like singing bark... And he has learnt many tricks - _sit, drop, heel, give_... he even shakes hand with me!"

"He shakes hand?" The notion struck Agnes's rare curiosity.

"Yes!" Emma was most animated, "When I say '_Hand, hand, Boy_' he would lift his front paw and let me shake his hand!" The fourteen-year-young mistress was basking in pride.

Agnes's thin lips twitched – and Emma caught sight of it!

"Do you wish to see him?" Emma asked expectantly.

Agnes was quiet; she straightened her lips and turned her gaze back to the chickens.

"You could come see him if you wish..." Emma beckoned.

"He shan't remember me," Agnes said softly.

"Of course he remembers you - you saved his life from the field, he could have been a fox's meal!"

Emma waited briefly, but Agnes said nothing. She asked again, "Do you wish to see him?"

"I cannot," the peasant girl said flatly, "I have chores to do."

"You could come after you feed the chickens..."

"I have weaving to do."

"Ah... after the weaving?"

"I have clothes to launder."

"Ah... after laundering the clothes?"

"I have to help Mama with supper."

Emma sighed! She really wished Agnes could see Wobble. She had been very proud of her puppy and she knew Agnes would feel the same. "Will you _ever_ be done with your chores?" asked she.

A sardonic laugh broke out of Agnes. "_Never_, rich girl! That's what we poor people do. Besides, my Papa would be furious if he sees me running round with a rich girl."

"What does your papa have against rich people? Does he think that he is better than everyone?" Emma asked indignantly. "And stop calling me 'rich girl', I have a name, you know!"

"Watch your words, missy! You are speaking of my Papa!" Agnes retorted.

"I only speak the truth - not only does your papa dislike charities, it seems to me he dislikes those who are in the position to give them!" Emma crossed her arms and frowned.

"He has his reasons!" Agnes said with firm conviction.

"_Fine_! And my name is Emma, not 'rich girl', not 'missy', stop calling me names!" The fourteen-year-old stamped a foot.

"_Fine_!" The fifteen-year-old lifted her chin and looked away.

In their youthful agitation, both girls fell into silence for a moment.

Suddenly, "Perhaps..." the Anderton girl spoke, tentatively, "... the morrow..."

Emma jumped! "The morrow, of course! When can you come?"

"Hum... after I feed the chickens... and finish the weaving... ah... two o'clock."

Emma clapped! "Two o'clock will be perfect!"

"I do not know where you live," said Agnes.

"Oh, we are not going to Hartfield!" Emma explained, "Remember I told you that my Papa would not approve a puppy in the house? Wobble is boarding at my friend's house."

"Would your friend let me see Wobble?"

"Of course! My friend is very kind, he shall not refuse!"

"I do not know where your friend lives."

"Do not worry..." in a matter of seconds, Emma had it all planned, "I shall meet you by the white gate of Abbey Mill Farm at two o'clock and take you to where my friend lives."

"No!" Agnes cried out in great agitation. "I shall _not_ go to Abbey Mill Farm!"

Emma was taken aback, she explained hurriedly, "But we are not going to Abbey Mill Farm... the access road by the farm is the shortest route to my friend's house!"

"I shall _never_ go near that farm!" Agnes said in anger, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

The rage in Agnes startled Emma. _What w__as the poignant __sting_? She wondered. She would not ask though, she quickly changed her plan. "Ah... we shall _not_ go near Abbey Mill Farm... we shall meet on Willows Lane outside the Thompson Farm at two o'clock."

Agnes took in a deep breath, she nodded.

* * *

The next day, in her pretty summer muslin gown in pale-yellow colour, and straw bonnet tied with a yellow ribbon under her soft chin, Emma arrived at Willows Lane outside the Thompson Farm at precisely two o'clock. After twenty minutes of waiting patiently, she began to wonder if Agnes would ever come.

"Could she have forgotten?" in a quiet disappointed voice, Emma turned to ask her maid Kate - who was under strict order by Miss Taylor to accompany the young Hartfield Mistress wherever she wished to be. The free-spirited fourteen-year-old had protested against her governess's order for almost an hour to no avail. Ever since the day she was missing from Hartfield for over six hours, under no circumstance would Miss Taylor allow Emma went on an outing on her own. The governess had become her charge's constant companion, except when Emma was in the company of the family's trusted friend Mr. Knightley, or when Mr. Woodhouse needed her attendance then would she ask the maid to chaperone her charge.

"Perhaps, Miss Emma," replied Kate.

Emma could only sigh! But she endeavoured to wait patiently for a while longer, and before long she saw a group of villagers treading down Willows Lane at her direction.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Chalcroft, Farmer Mitchell, Mrs. Lewer, Miss Kilick, Mr. Wickford, Reverend Light, Mrs. Goddard, Mrs. Perry, Mr. Ford..." Emma went on greeting at least fifteen residents from the village of Highbury and parish of Donwell. Many a greeting of 'Good afternoon, Miss Woodhouse' were returned politely to her.

She was delighted to see so many familiar faces all at once, but wondered why the grave frowning on each one of them. "How extraordinary to see such a large party gathered together! Are you all exercising on this hot summer day?" She tried to smile, but even her most charming smile could not lift the frowns from these faces.

Farmer Mitchell lamented, "Miss Woodhouse, we are not exercising!"

"You are not!" Emma was curious. "Then what brought you all out on Willows Lane?"

"We are heading to Mr. Knightley's quarter session, Miss Woodhouse," Mrs. Goddard supplied.

"All of you?" Emma's round eyes beckoned them to explain.

"Yes, Miss Woodhouse," the very kind Reverend Light said, "we have been cited for not sweeping the pavement before our houses, school, coffee-house, shop, and..." the Reverend looked down shame-facedly, "and church! We are going to our magistrate's quarter session to face our orders and pay our fines!"

"That is right!" Farmer Mitchell added gravely, "We shall be five shillings poorer once the session is over!"

"Miss Woodhouse," Mr. Ford spoke up pleadingly, "with your family relation with Mr. Knightley, do you think you could put in a good word for us and ask Mr. Knightley to grant leniency for our offenses?"

"I would love to help if I could, Mr. Ford, but Mr. Knightley would never let connection of any sort stands in the way of justice," Emma smiled ruefully, "I am afraid there is nothing I could do!"

Emma truly felt sorry for them, but as she recalled, Mr. Knightley had mentioned in passing that they had been given several warnings on prior occasions, perhaps the fine would help them learn the lesson they needed to learn.

The herd of grave villagers bade the young Miss Woodhouse good-day and left hurriedly, leaving the dusty trial and Emma and Kate behind in the summer heat.

Another fifteen minutes went by; the hot sun was beginning to burn the delicate skin of Emma's bare-arms. She opened her parasol to shade herself from the scorching rays, hoping Agnes would appear soon. Patiently, she waited for a while longer. Then, a glimpse of hope appeared - from a not so far distance, a familiar slim figure was jogging down the lane at her direction, the fourteen-year-old was overjoyed. She waved enthusiastically when she recognized that the figure was the very person she had been waiting for.

"I... am... sorry..." Agnes apologized hurriedly, bending down to catch her breath, and coughing in between her heaves.

"I thought you had forgotten our meeting!" Emma was relieved, patting on Agnes's back gently to sooth her coughs.

"Never... I always... keep my words... I had to... put Ella... to nap before I could leave the house," Agnes explained brokenly, still panting.

"I am so glad you came!" Emma smiled brightly at Agnes.

"But I must be home in an hour to help Mama with supper!"

"Absolutely, if we hurry we shall be at my friend's house in quarter of an hour, and that would leave us time to play with Wobble!" Emma was ready to get on with their journey, but she noticed Agnes's gaze had been fixated on her person since she arrived.

"Is there something wrong with my dress?" She asked sheepishly, looking round herself to see if she had soiled her muslin gown.

"No..." Agnes said awkwardly, averting her eyes from Emma's.

"But you have been staring at me like I was some sort of odd creature... it is my dress, is not it?" The fourteen-year-old frowned, "I wished to wear my white gown, but Miss Taylor insisted that I should wear this yellow dress instead because it brought out the hazel colour in my eyes! And now I look like an ear of corn, do not I?"

"No! Of course you do not look like an ear of corn, not in the least..." Agnes replied quietly.

"Not an ear of corn... then I must look like a lemon... tell me, this yellow dress on me looks like a lemon hanging on a lemon tree, does not it?" Emma crossed her arms, feeling a little vexed at herself.

"No! You do not look anything like a lemon... or a lemon tree..." the Anderton girl murmured, "you... ah... you look pretty... you always do..."

Emma was astonished! – Agnes had never paid the tiniest compliment to her since they met. The proud peasant girl had not even said as much as a 'thank you' for the charity she had extended to the family. Not that Emma had wished for anything in return, but a compliment meant approval, approval meant Agnes liked her... and Agnes liked her meant... Could this mean they were friends? _Friend__s_! _- _With a person of her sex and close to her age? What a novel idea to the young Hartfield Mistress!

"Oh! Thank you, Agnes!" Emma smiled luminously, "I think we shall get on very well!"

Emma tugged at Agnes's arm excitedly, and both girls began (with Kate trailing behind) jaunting down Willows Lane.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later...

"Do these big trees belong to your friend?" Her eyes wide-opened, Agnes asked in awe, admiring the broad lane shaded by giant elm trees that were hundreds of years old on both side of the lane.

"Hum, hum," Emma nodded, "So is the Willow Park that we just walked through."

Agnes's wide-eyes grew wider. "You mean... that beautiful park with the willow trees and the pond with ducks and lily pads... they all belong to your friend?"

"Hum, hum. It is beautiful, is not it?" Emma said proudly.

"It is heavenly... that is... if it is what heaven looks like..." Agnes stopped speaking when suddenly her eyes opened from the shaded broad lane to the brilliant blue sky over the extensive grounds leading to the dignified mansion.

"I have always loved the ground leading to the Abbey. It is so open and free! Every time I walk this ground I feel like a bird ready to spread my wings and fly!" Emma twirled around several times on the ground with her out-stretched arms tasting the air of freedom like a Caspian Gull. She could not count how many times she had walked on the Donwell Abbey grounds, but the older she grew, the stronger the sense of pride she felt in her heart, for being the neighbour and friend of such an ancient and genteel family, and for having the privilege of coming and going so freely of this marvellous estate.

While her friend was twirling freely beside her, being completely enthralled in the tranquil yet magnificent surroundings, Agnes had lost sensation of her feet!

"There is a Flower Garden behind the mansion," Emma stopped twirling and appointed herself the guide for her new friend, "the Rose Garden is on the south side next to a beautiful water fountain, the Herb Garden is on the west side by the kitchen. The Vegetable Garden and Mr. Knightley's prized strawberry beds are in the further south side, they yield the sweetest strawberries in the summer and the tastiest vegetables all year long..."

"Mr. Knightley?" Agnes reclaimed her voice and asked abruptly, "You mean the man who owns all of Donwell and most of Highbury?"

"Of course," Emma said a-matter-of-factly. "There is only one Mr. Knightley! Well, there's his younger brother, Mr. John Knightley, but he is married to my sister; they and my infant nephew are living in London."

"Why did not you tell me that we were coming to the rich man's house?" Agnes frowned; uneasiness took over her pale face.

"Look at your frown, Agnes! If I had told you, would you have come?" Emma smiled smugly. And Agnes admitted to herself that her friend was right.

"But... you should have told me... what if my Papa found out that I came to the rich man's house... what if the man is ungenerous and would not let me see the puppy... what if he is _mean_!" The Anderton girl said it with passion.

"_What_? Mr. Knightley – _Mean_?" Emma looked incredulous – how could anyone hold such mistaken notion for her best friend! "Mr. Knightley is the _kindest_ and _most_ generous gentleman one would ever meet, he is everything _but_ mean!" She was indignant for a moment, but her thought shifted and instantly a hint of her mischievous smile curled the corners of her mouth, "Though he _is_ in the habit of correcting my faults and calling me spoiled, that does not signify, for he would never do it to anyone else!" Emma rested her claim - unaware of the smile of endearment creeping up her face.

Agnes took notice of Emma's beautiful smile – if her friend could like the rich man so much, she reckoned, perhaps he could not be so bad. But the fifteen-year-old still looked wary.

"Do not worry, you silly goose, I promise you that Mr. Knightley shall be kind to you!" assured Emma.

"But... have you sought his permission to let me in his house?" Agnes asked apprehensively.

"Why should I? You shall be with me!" Emma said.

"But, you _must_ or I would not go in!" Agnes insisted.

"Well...there is no need... but if it would ease your mind, I shall ask him once we reach the house," Emma complied.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

* * *

They had reached the stone steps in front of the Abbey main entrance, Agnes halted at the bottom of the steps.

"I shall not go further until your friend has given his permission. I do not wish to be accused of trespassing... or... or stealing from him!" There was an unusual fear in Agnes's eyes – Emma wondered what had brought this fear in her friend.

"Well then" said Emma, "you shall wait for me here while I go inside."

Emma left Agnes and walked into the Abbey, meeting the footman at the entrance hall.

"Good afternoon, Miss Emma!" The Donwell footman bowed warmly.

"Good afternoon, Harry!" Emma smiled brightly at the footman, "May I speak with Mr. Knightley?" she asked very politely.

"Huh!" Harry was taken aback, for when it came to Miss Emma, formality was a thing of the past; the old footman had forgotten when was the last time he announced the call of this favourite guest of Donwell Abbey.

"Ah... Miss Emma... a-are you c-certain that you w-wish... you wish me to a-announce your call?" the footman stammered, "Mr. Knightley is in s-session, as you k-know... must not be d-disturbed..."

"I am sure, Harry!" Emma smiled sweetly, "I know Mr. Knightley is in quarter session, but I must speak with him at once, would you pray let him know?" Emma beckoned.

"Ah..." the footman still hesitated.

"Pray do not worry, Harry, if you just explain to Mr. Knightley that I have an urgent matter for which I must see him at once, I assure you that he would not mind so much!"

Young Emma knew she just told a lie! The kind Mr. Knightley's saintly patience had never allowed him to turn away anyone who called, in spite of the day or the time – except – when he was in his magistrate sessions. As the gentleman took his magistrate responsibilities not only as a duty, but a privilege bestowed upon him, he honoured it with his utmost respect and undivided attention, hence refused to be disturbed during his sessions, unless it was for matters of utter urgency.

Well, convincing herself, Emma thought, her matter was indeed of the most urgent nature – her friend must be home in half an hour to assist her mama with supper, and the girl would not be easy until the Donwell Master himself had given his consent to let her in his house. Though she was growing a bit nervous, Mr. Knightley must, Emma reckoned, grant her the understanding for caring of her friend so much that she was willing to risk treading on his nerves.

She heard the sound of hastened footsteps approaching, but before the gentleman reached the young lady, someone else had beaten him to her: Wobble! The rumbustious puppy had been sitting sedately at the feet of his master under his enormous writing desk listening to the never ending proceedings in session – a servant had assaulted his master, a labourer left his work before it was finished, several apprentices had stolen their masters' goods, a weaver did not return tools entrusted to her, a woman disturbed the parish church, assessment and order for relief were given to many poor, old, sick and lame, and those who did not sweep their pavement between the appointed hours must be fined, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Wobble had sensed Emma's arrival the instance she entered into the entrance hall, the spaniel sprang up to his paws and immediately went to the library door scratching it and begging to be let out. As soon as the footman opened the door to speak to his master, the over-excited puppy bolted out of the library in lightening speed, disregarding all the corners and walls that he bumped and hit, and ran toward where his mistress's scent came from. His tail was wagging so fast that it had stirred up a small draft, which Mr. Woodhouse would have had a scruple of had the old gentleman been nearby!

Emma knelt down to embrace her beloved puppy when he collided into her skirt, but her giggles were strained at once when she heard Mr. Knightley's voice echoed in the hall.

"Emma, what is the matter? Did something happen at Hartfield? Is your father well?" Mr. Knightley was approaching, looking very concerned.

Emma rose from her knees and swallowed, "Everything is fine, Mr. Knightley!" only that her unusually timid voice did not sound fine to him.

"Then... are you unwell?" he asked with even more anxiety.

"Oh, no, Mr. Knightley! I am very well indeed!" Emma smiled ruefully.

"But you would not have interrupted me if things were fine, Emma!"

"Pray be assured, Mr. Knightley... everything is fine!" Her voice was growing smaller.

"If everything is fine, then," he creased his brows, his tone hardening, "what is the urgent matter that you must speak with me at once?"

His furrowed brows quickened her heart beats, Emma took a deep breath, "Mr. Knightley... you see, I was wondering if... ah... if you would permit my friend to come into the Abbey?"

"A _friend_?" Irritation aside, the sound of sheltered Emma having a friend was most unusual to Mr. Knightley. "Since when you have a friend, Emma... I mean besides..." the gentleman faltered.

"You mean besides _you_!" The fourteen-year-old pouted. Never minded that her nerves were wracked for interrupting his magistrate's session, Emma was decidedly annoyed; she returned saucily at him, "Yes, Mr. Knightley, I am allowed to have other friends! You are _not_ my only friend!"

Mr. Knightley was exceedingly curious. "Who is this new friend, Emma?"

"Do you remember Agnes?" she asked.

"The Anderton's eldest daughter?" How could he forget the name of the person who sold Emma the puppy – the cause of his mad search for her only a month ago!

"Hum, hum," she nodded.

"You brought her to the Abbey with you?" he was surprised.

"Hum..." Emma replied, "She wished to see Wobble, Mr. Knightley, but she would not come in until you approve!"

"Emma, you know that I must not be disturbed during my sessions!" Mr Knightley sounded impatient. "As long as you are with her, there is no need for my approval." The magistrate could not help but felt annoyed for being called away from his sacred duty for such a trifling reason.

"I know, Mr. Knightley, that was what I told her, but she would not be easy until you approve. Would you pray tell her in person? It would not take even a minute!" She laid her hands on his forearm as she pleaded.

He breathed a breath of frustration and asked, "Where is she?"

Emma led Mr. Knightley out to the bottom of the steps where Agnes had been waiting anxiously. Many a time during her wait, the fifteen-year-old had wished she did not agree to come today, and several moments she had almost fled before Emma's return. When Agnes saw the tall upright figure walking beside her friend coming at her, her anxiety doubled. Though the gentleman's face was handsome, the small crease between his brows had made him looked stern!

"Mr. Knightley, may I present to you Miss Anderton; and Miss Anderton, this is Mr. Knightley, the Master of Donwell!" Sensing the tension in the air, Emma smiled as brightly as she could.

"How do you do, Miss Anderton?" The Donwell Master bowed civilly to the peasant girl.

"How...how do... you do... Mr. Knightley?" returned in a timid voice, Agnes curtsied uneasily, feeling intimidated and awed at the same time.

"Welcome to Donwell Abbey, Miss Anderton. If you would pardon me, I shall leave you in the excellent company of Miss Woodhouse and return to my quarter session, for there are many anxious citizens awaiting my return." The gentleman took his bow, turned, and hastened back to the house to the library, disappearing from the views of the two young ladies within seconds.

As soon as Mr. Knightley was out of earshot, "He despised me!" Agnes said angrily at Emma.

"No! Mr. Knightley does not despise anybody!" Emma returned instantly.

"He was annoyed at me; I could see the frown on his face!" Agnes continued to be fervent.

"That was untrue! He was not annoyed at you, not in the least! Mr. Knightley is a very kind man, he seemed irritated only because _I_ interrupted him during his session," declared Emma.

"But you interrupted him for _me_!'

"But _I_ was the one who called him out of his quarter session!"

"Papa is right... all rich men are alike!" Agnes would not be dissuaded.

"I do not know what your papa told you, Agnes, but Mr. Knightley is the kindest of men! He looked displeased only because he dislikes being interrupted during his magistrate duties. You must not mistake him for something he is not!" Emma said ardently.

Agnes's fervency had made it difficult for her to breathe. She heaved a few heavy breaths and then fell into a coughing fit. Emma laid her hand on Agnes's back at once and patted it gently to sooth her coughs.

After a few short moments, Agnes's coughs finally ceased, although her frown did not.

"Come, Wobble!" Emma turned to her puppy, with the hope to shift their attention away from Agnes's unpleasant misunderstanding. She picked up Wobble in her arms and held him close to Agnes's cheek for sniffs. After several sniffs, the spaniel immediately stuck out his wet tongue and gave the agitated girl many affectionate tickles, which successfully unlocked the creases between the girl's brows and brought her to giggles.

"Did not I tell you that Wobble remembered you?" Emma smiled brightly.

Agnes nodded – a rare happy smile broke out of the girl's pale face.

"Come Agnes, let us go inside," Emma entreated warmly, "you have been out of door for too long, the hot summer air is not agreeable with your lungs. Some lemonade shall refresh both of us," she turned to Wobble and gave him her sweetest smile, "and you too, my little boy!"

With as much reluctance as anticipation, Agnes followed Emma into the ancient and dignified Donwell Abbey.

* * *

The two young ladies and the puppy had the most splendid time at the Abbey. After quenching their thirsts and satisfying their stomach with Mrs. Mayson's refreshing lemonade and scrumptious berry torte, they chased each other through all the flower gardens, soaked in the fragrances of the brilliantly coloured flowers, splashed water by the side of the fountain, and played hide and seek among the tall hedges till their legs went sore. When Emma saw that her friend was growing pale and fatigued, she suggested a small rest for the three of them. The two girls and Wobble slumped down onto the stone bench by Mr. Knightley's strawberry beds, exhausted.

Suddenly, "What time is it?" Agnes asked, jerking up from the bench.

Emma pulled out the silver time piece from her pocket, one look at the time she gasped. "It is almost half past four!"

"Oh no! I have completely forgotten the time... I meant to be home an hour ago to help Mama with supper..." Agnes was in a panic, "I must go home at once!"

"Yes, you must go!" Emma agreed with as much anxiety, "We shall take the access route by Abbey Mill Farm."

In spite of her panic, Agnes cried out with great agitation – the same agitation that Emma saw the day before, "No! I shall _not_ go near Abbey Mill Farm!"

"But it is the shortest way for you to get home, Agnes!" Emma explained.

"I shan't go close to that wretched farm!" Agnes insisted furiously.

"But the access road could bring you home in less than half the time, Agnes!' Emma pleaded earnestly, "It would spare you some scolding from your mama; I assure you!" Emma saw the unwavering sternness in her friend, out of good intention she suggested, "Whatever scruples you have for the farm, cannot you set it aside just once?"

"Set aside my scruples?" Agnes looked at her friend incredulously, fiery anger sparked her eyes.

Emma saw the pain in Agnes, she beckoned her kindly, "Pray do not fret over nearing the farm, Agnes. I assure you that the people who own the farm are kind, as Mr. Knightley has the highest regard for the tenants of the farm!"

"_Regards_?" Agnes cried out scornfully.

"Yes, Agnes! Many a time Mr. Knightley has complimented on the excellence of the family who runs the farm, how hard working the family is, and how profitable the farm has always been..."

"He is _wrong_!" The Anderton girl interrupted curtly.

"How could you say such a thing? Mr. Knightley is the most sensible man and his judgement is superior, he would never say anything that is not true!" Emma defended her life-long friend unreservedly, but she was piqued by her new friend's fervent anger at someone Mr. Knightley had spoken of so highly. She took Agnes's frigid hand in her warm ones, and asked with great sensitivity, "Why are you so angry at Abbey Mill Farm, Agnes? Have they offended you in some ways?"

For a long moment Agnes would not speak; she only stared at Emma intently with tears threatening to break out of her grey eyes. The Anderton girl tried to extricate her cold hand out of Emma's grasp, but Emma would not let go. She then swiped her wet eyes with the back of her free hand and began to open up.

"They accused my Papa of stealing from them!" Agnes said, aghast at the sound of her own words.

"_What__..._" Emma drawled in dismay.

Agnes's eyes flashed, rage and hurt mingled in her burning glare. "Yes! The owner at Abbey Mill Farm accused my Papa of stealing from them!" She heaved at those disgusting words.

"But... but... your papa is a good man... he would not do such things, would he?" in her earnest, Emma asked. She had visited the Andertons many times, though never once had she met Mr. Anderton in person, as he was always out looking for work, but from what she had gathered from the family, the man was just as Miss Taylor had suspected – a good and honourable man! Could a man who would not even accept charity without scruples capable of stealing?

"Of course he would _never_, _ever_ do such a thing!" Agnes said vehemently.

"Then, it must have been a misunderstanding! Surely if your papa makes himself clear, the farm owner would understand and acquit him of the accusation!"

"_Acquit him_?" Agnes snorted bitterly. "Papa had worked at Abbey Mill for almost a month; he was the hardest worker they had. Every day, he was the first to arrive and the last to leave. He worked so hard that he often came home exhausted, and many a time with blisters and scrapes all over his hands! Then one day, rent money and tools were missing from the farm house, and the next day some geese were gone, and the farm owner was sure that Papa had stolen them! Papa tried to explain and the owner would not hear any of it! He denied Papa of the wages he made for the time he worked there and warned him to never return to the farm or he would be taken to the magistrate!"

A large glistening tear dropped from the peasant girl's eye. "We had just moved into the parish and that was the first employment Papa was able to find. The farm owner spread vicious words about my Papa, all the farm owners in the area treated my Papa with disdain; not a farm has been willing to hire my Papa since then... because they all think he's a _thief_!"

Swiping her wet eyes with her free hand angrily, Agnes heaved a breath and continued brokenly, "It is summer and autumn is coming soon, if Papa cannot secure steady employment, our family will not even have scraps to live on through the winter! And if not because of Abbey Mill Farm, my Papa would never have taken the humiliation and accepted charity - he could not bear to see his family starve!" Agnes swung Emma's hands off of hers, fell on her knees and cried bitterly into her own hands.

A cold lump had formed in Emma's throat; she did not know what to say! Life for the fourteen-year-old had been happy and privileged. Though she had endured hardship of growing up without her mother, there was Miss Taylor's love to fill a large part of the void; and though she had felt loneliness for having no friends of her age and station, Mr. Knightley's faithful friendship was more than enough to chase her melancholy away. She had not experienced hunger, had not suffered humiliation for being poor, she never had the need to work, never the fear for not having enough to get through any season.

But Emma understood the needs of the poor, the old and the lame; she had seen families that had nothing but the clothes on their backs, innocent children suffering from cold and hunger because their papas and mamas could not find work; she had visited most, perhaps all, the poverty-stricken families in Highbury and knew them by heart, and she had offered them help and kindness whenever their circumstances warranted.

She now understood Agnes's anger toward Abbey Mill Farm. In fact, she was beginning to resent the farm owners herself! How could they accuse a decent man of stealing from them? How cruel of them to spread vicious words against an innocent man bringing ruins to him and his family? Out of respect for Agnes's apprehensions, Emma escorted her back to where they met on Willows Lane outside the Thompson Farm, and saw her off on her journey home. It was a longer route, and Agnes would surely be scolded for being late by her mama, but it would spare her friend the agony of nearing Abbey Mill Farm, avoiding the heartrending sight of her papa's malicious accuser.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you again for reading! :-)


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

"Mr. Ranyard, I hereby fine you ten shillings for selling apples by false measure," the Justice of Peace declared. The offender came forward and paid his fine.

Next, a warrant was issued authorising the entry of a Highbury dwelling, which was suspected as being an unlicensed gaming house. The Justice signed the warrant, handed it to the constable and concluded his magistrate's session for the quarter.

Once the last assemblage of citizens called to session was dismissed, the magistrate was left alone in his library sinking deep in his chair behind his enormous writing desk. It was a long day of proceedings but at the end of the day, Mr. Knightley was at peace with himself for fulfilling his duty with his utmost diligence and fairness. He carefully recorded his last proceeding in the manuscripts, accounted for the fines he had collected and meticulously registered them on a statement – the statement along with the fines were to be returned to the clerk of the peace.

After a day-full of ceaseless civil, as well as uncivil, complaints and pleadings, the library had fallen into a much welcomed silence. Not a speck of sound could be heard, except for the crunching noises stirred by his thumbing of the manuscript pages. But ere long, he heard footsteps approaching – first, it was the footsteps of a certain furry creature, his paws meeting the wooden floor, making a very familiar squeaking sound – Mr. Knightley had just realized that his golden spaniel had left the side of his feet hours ago and was delighted to see his return.

But he was even more delighted to hear another set of footsteps – the light and graceful treading of a far more endearing creature – he had thought that she had already gone home, after all, suppers were served sharply in the hour of half-past four at Hartfield, for Mr. Woodhouse, the most devoted creature of habit, could not bear the slightest change, especially in the times of when he partook his meals.

Mr. Knightley looked up in anticipation of his young friend's sunny smiles, but, instead, was met with a crease between her brows and a pair of compressed lips!

"I thought you had left!" The gentleman smiled and rose as soon as she came into the library.

"I did... but I came back," Emma said softly.

"Did Miss Anderton have a pleasant visit at the Abbey?" Mr. Knightley inquired kindly.

Emma nodded wordlessly.

Mr. Knightley was baffled – the Emma he knew would have begun telling him in great animation everything that she had done with her new friend long before he asked. And even now that she was asked, an unenthusiastic nod was all that he received.

"Where is Kate?" he looked round as if searching for the Hartfield maid, "Is not she under strict order to guard you at all times? How could she be as careless as to let you out of her sight?" the gentleman teased, attempting to unlock the crease between the brows of his friend.

"I sent her home," Emma replied.

Surprised by her lifeless answers, Mr. Knightley endeavoured to suggest a reason for her frown, "You must be hungry, Emma! I shall inform Mrs. Hodges to serve supper in half an hour."

Emma shook her head and muttered, "I am not..."

"You are not..." the gentleman repeated. Tapping a finger on his desk, he continued to search for the reason for his friend's unusual countenance.

"Has Wobble been misbehaving?" Mr. Knightley asked playfully, as Emma could see no wrong in her beloved puppy, such remark would surely set her off on a lively rebuttal.

"No"

That was all she said – a quiet 'no', an utterly spiritless 'no'!

"Humph..." The gentleman was at a loss.

_Ahhh _– he knew!

"You are upset with me, are not you?" He cocked an eyebrow, watching for signs of liveliness, or sauciness to be precise, in her. "I am sorry for being impatient with you earlier." He said sincerely, "If I had displayed any signs, which I know I had, of annoyance when you called me out of my session, I beg your pardon, Emma."

The young lady returned, "That is not the reason why I came back!" her frown deepened.

Mr. Knightley took a deep breath, "Then what is bothering you, Emma? You would not have that look on your face if nothing is bothering you. Out with it, young lady!"

Emma stared at Mr. Knightley for a moment, seemingly pensive of what to say to him. She slowly decided to speak, a little unsure at first.

"Mr. Knightley... did you know... did you know that Agnes's father was accused of stealing from Abbey Mill Farm?"

"Humph... so _that_ was what's on your mind," the gentleman uttered under his breath.

Emma heard what he said. "So you knew!" She looked injured.

Mr. Knightley fell into silence, considering Emma's disconcerted reaction.

"Was that why you thought Agnes was swindling money from me by selling me a blind puppy... because you believed that her father was a thief, and that she would be one as well?" asked Emma.

"Emma, I must own that the thought did cross my mind for a brief moment," Mr. Knightley regretted, "but as soon as you explained the full tale, I had not suspected Miss Anderton in that way ever since!"

"But you still believe her father is a thief?" Emma demanded.

Mr. Knightley regarded Emma's words, and calmly he explained, "About three months ago, William Larkins informed me that there was a theft at Abbey Mill Farm. The theft was never formally reported, nor had anyone been brought forth. But I had indeed heard that the Martins had graciously let the apprehended go."

"And the apprehended was Mr. Anderton?" Emma asked with narrowed eyes.

"That is my understanding," answered Mr. Knightley.

"Was there any proof that Mr. Anderton had committed the theft?" Emma questioned.

"As I said, no one was brought forth, Emma, no proof had been provided," the gentleman replied steadily.

"But had _anyone_ seen Mr. Anderton committing the theft?" the young lady pressed further.

"From what I heard it did not sound like there were any eyewitnesses," the magistrate patiently replied.

"But everyone believes Agnes's father was the thief... even _you_, Mr. Knightley?" Emma looked at him intently.

"Emma," his voice was filled with sensitivity, Mr. Knightley went on, "I know you are friends with Miss Anderton, but the Martins would never deliberately spread any words that were untrue. It was very kind of them to let her father go."

Wishing what she just heard did not come from her esteemed friend, "_But_... Mr. Knightley," Emma looked up at him disbelievingly, "you said it as if you had seen Mr. Anderton committing the crime with your own eyes! Of all people, you are the most sensible and just man I know... how could you believe in something merely based on someone's words?"

"Emma, though I have not seen it with my own eyes, I have known the Martins for years, they are respectable and honourable people, they are not capable of telling a vicious lie."

"But... are you saying, Mr. Knightley, that just because the Andertons have only moved into the parish for four months, and you have not known them for years... that would make them not _respectable_? Not _honourable_... and capable of _stealing_?"

"Emma, you know that is not what I meant." Mr. Knightley continued patiently, "I did not see what happened at Abbey Mill Farm, I could only judge by what I heard and the source I heard it from."

"Mr. Knightley, have you ever met Mr. Anderton in person?" Emma asked.

"No, I have not," he confessed.

"Nor have I," Emma imparted, "but what I have heard from his wife, his daughters and his son, and what I have seen in Agnes's characters have every reason for me to believe that Mr. Anderton is a good and honourable man." Looking at Mr. Knightley unwaveringly, she appealed, "Mr. Anderton would not even accept charity if not because of his starving family... and yet, everyone, including _you_, has condemned him as a thief!

"Did you know" Emma continued compassionately, "that since the accusation, Mr. Anderton has not been able to secure steady employment? And if the Andertons cannot store up during the summer and autumn seasons when there is ample work amongst the farms, the family shall have nothing to live on when winter comes!"

Mr. Knightley had been standing there silently, listening intently and contemplating every word that Emma said. Unfortunately, Emma had mistaken his silence as indifference, and her disappointment in his believing Mr. Anderton was a thief had grown into anger.

Harry the footman suddenly came into the library, "Miss Taylor, sir," he announced.

Mr. Knightley inclined his head gesturing Harry to send his caller in.

The announcement from the footman had instantly shifted Emma's concerns for the Andertons to wondering what brought her governess to the Abbey. Miss Taylor knew that Mr. Knightley would have escorted her back to Hartfield; something must have happened to her father that forced Miss Taylor to come.

"Mr. Knightley," Miss Taylor curtsied before turning to her charge, "Emma!"

"Is Papa unwell?" Emma asked very anxiously.

"Your father has caught a chill; Mr. Perry had already called and sent your father to bed. But Mr. Woodhouse would not rest until he sees you, Emma!"

"We must leave at once!" Emma tugged at her shawl wrapping it round her shoulders and then picked up her bonnet.

The governess nodded, "James is waiting outside."

"May I be of service to you?" Mr. Knightley asked earnestly.

"It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, but there is no need," Miss Taylor replied politely. "Mr. Woodhouse's chill is mild. Mr. Perry said that some good rest should restore him in a day or two. But Mr. Woodhouse insisted on seeing Emma before he retired, which was why I came in so much haste."

"Then please send my regards to Mr. Woodhouse!" Mr. Knightley said kindly, graciously obliged to stay at his home. Miss Taylor smiled in return.

"Good evening, Miss Taylor," the gentleman bowed. Miss Taylor curtsied and begged him the same.

Mr. Knightley walked closer to Emma, but she would not meet his eyes – he could tell she was upset with him.

"Good evening, Emma," even as he bowed, the gentleman kept his eyes on his friend.

"Good evening, Mr. Knightley..." Emma said quietly, averting her eyes as she curtsied.

* * *

The next morning, Mr. Knightley and William Larkins were out in the fields at the Donwell home-farm examining soil conditions.

"Humph," The master crouched to feel the soil with his experienced fingers, "did you notice these patches of dark-brown coloured soil, Larkins?"

The bailiff applied the same position as his master's to take a closer look at the soil. "No, sir, I did not notice them until now."

"There are also belts of blacks on the soil here and there." Mr. Knightley stood up and led William Larkins to some of the damped soil that he had observed.

"Does it mean that we did not drain the ground thorough enough last winter?" asked the bailiff.

"Apparently not. There must still be stagnant water lurking below the ground, which causes these dark patches in the soil. This also explains why our crops this summer are not as fine as they were before. Most of the summer heat had been diverted to evaporate the cold moisture from the wet ground underneath instead of nourishing the crops."

"Should we be digging more trenches this winter, sir?"

"Hmm," Mr. Knightley nodded, "and we also need to improve our existing trenches to better channel the ground water from the fields. We should make the necessary arrangement for the materials now and commence the work as soon as autumn begins when the weather is dry, and the ground is still hard and easier to be carted on. The draining work will begin with the field where its grass has been eaten down and move on to the next; the operations shall carry on through winter."

"With so much work ahead, I do not think our existing farm-servants would do, Mr. Knightley. Would you consider filling the spadesman and hedger position?" asked William Larkins.

The master was contemplative for a moment before he asked, "Do you know if there has been any improvement on Hackman's drinking habit?"

The bailiff shook his head, "I do not believe so, sir."

"I wish we did not have to let him go, he had served Donwell for so long, he was the best spadesman and hedger we ever had... and his situation must not be easy on his family!" the kind-hearted master sighed.

"But Mr. Knightley, the fellow was half-drunk most of the days when he came to the farm, and completely drunk the rest of the times, his hands shook so much that he could barely hold the spade. If I may say so, sir, you made the right decision by letting him go."

"Is his wife still employed at the Coles?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"Yes, sir."

"What about his son?"

"I believe his son is now an apprentice of the local cobbler, sir."

"At least Mrs. Hackman's employment and the apprenticeship would bring the family some steady income," said Mr. Knightley, but before he would allow himself a sense of relief for the family, he noticed the uneasy look on William Larkins' face.

"What is it, Larkins?" the very perceptive master inquired his bailiff, "Has Hackman's drinking habit gotten worse, or has he acquired an even more dreadful habit?"

"Ah... Hackman started gambling several months ago; and I heard that he has accumulated a sizable debt, Mr. Knightley."

Mr. Knightley's heart sank, "That is truly unfortunate!"

"Mr. Knightley, I know you have been leaving the spadesman and hedger position unfilled waiting for Hackman to clean up his act, but it has been more than a year now, instead of getting better, he has gotten worse; I doubt that the fellow would be sober enough to fit working soon. Perhaps it is time to start looking for someone else?" William Larkins suggested respectfully.

Mr. Knightley considered his bailiff's advice for a moment, "You are right, Larkins," he nodded resolutely, "it is time!"

They spent more time examining the rest of the fields and looking over the crops until noon came. Right when William Larkins thought he could take his leave to go collecting the month's rents from the Donwell tenants, Mr. Knightley started on a new subject matter.

"Larkins, remember the theft that happened three months ago at Abbey Mill Farm?"

"Ah... yes, sir."

"Am I right that Mr. Anderton was the one the Martins accused of the theft?"

"I believe so, Mr. Knightley."

"Do you recall what was stolen?"

"Ah," the bailiff searched his memories, "I believe some tools and poultry were missing – as well as the rent money Robert Martin had set aside for the month."

"Do you know why the Martins never reported the theft?"

"As I recall, sir, young Robert Martin was the one who told me what happened at his farm. He must have felt sorry for the family, as the Andertons had just moved into the area and the fellow had three children and an expectant wife."

"Humph – Did the Martins recover any of the stolen goods?" Mr. Knightley asked.

"Ah... no, I do not believe so, sir." William Larkins replied.

"You said that Robert Martin was the one who informed you of the theft, but, did Robert Martin or anyone actually _see_ Mr. Anderton committing the theft?"

"That, I do not know, Mr. Knightley."

* * *

**A/N:** Can't believe it's September already! We didn't have much of a summer this year in my part of the world, but the last few days have been very nice. The mornings are getting quite nippy already, I could almost smell autumn now, hanging on to the sun as long as we could! No matter where you are, what time of day (or night) it is at your side of the world, wishing you a wonderful September! And thank you so much for reading! :D


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

* * *

After his meeting with William Larkins, Mr. Knightley decided to pay a visit to the Martins at Abbey Mill Farm.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley!" The young farmer laid down his shovel to greet his landlord respectfully.

"Good afternoon, Robert!" Mr. Knightley returned the young farmer's greeting warmly.

"You just saw Father, did not you?" Robert Martin asked gravely. The seventeen-year-old caught sight of Mr. Knightley leaving his cottage from afar; he knew his kind landlord must have come to visit his stricken father.

Mr. Knightley answered with a sombre nod, regretting the deteriorating conditions of the elder Farmer Martin, who had been an excellent tenant of Donwell since Mr. Knightley was just a little boy; through his open mind and tireless effort experimenting different farming methods, over the years, the self-taught farmer had grown Abbey Mill from a tiny plot of land into the most successful tenant farm in the Donwell parish.

"Father is not doing well, Mr. Knightley!" Young Robert lamented, looking down at his hands that were holding the shovel.

"What did Mr. Perry say, Robert?" Mr. Knightley asked kindly.

"He said... it would not be long..." he faltered, holding back tears, young Robert turned away, hiding the hand that was swiping his wet eyes.

Mr. Knightley felt a pang at his heart. Sincerely, he said, "I am very sorry, Robert!" laying a comforting hand on young Robert's shoulder.

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley," Robert Martin mustered a brave smile. "I promised Father that I would work my hardest and become an accomplished farmer just like him! You see, I have been examining the soil as you and Father taught me," pointing down at the dark-brown soil under his shovel, "I discovered patches like this all over our farm the last couple days!"

"Humph," Mr. Knightley crouched to examine the soil under his feet. "Apparently Abbey Mill Farm and the Donwell home-farm are suffering the same fate of lurking water underneath the ground."

"The draining work we did last winter was not good enough!" exclaimed young Robert.

"Neither was ours!" Mr. Knightley agreed.

"Robert," rising to his feet, Mr. Knightley said, dusting the soil off his fingers, "would you mind if I ask about the theft that took place at Abbey Mill Farm three months ago?"

"Ah..." taken a little aback at first, but then Robert Martin gladly obliged, "Of course not, Mr. Knightley, you may ask me anything you wish to know!"

Mr. Knightley began thoughtfully, "William Larkins told me that it was Mr. Anderton whom you apprehended for the theft that happened three months ago, is that so?"

"Yes, Mr. Knightley, the day after I confronted Anderton, Mr. Larkins came to our farm to collect the rent for the month, which was when I inform him of the theft."

"Robert," Mr. Knightley asked, "why did not you report the theft or bring Mr. Anderton forth to the magistrate's office?"

"Ah..." the young farmer looked embarrassed, "Mr. Knightley... it was the first time I had to handle things as such on my own. In the past, I had seen Father caught petty thieves who stole our eggs and hens; you know how Father has a tender heart for everyone, even the ones who take from us! Anderton kept begging me not to take him to the magistrate as he had three children and one on its way, I thought of how Father would have handled it, and he certainly would have pitied the fellow and let him go... but... do you think I should have brought him to you, Mr. Knightley? Is this why you are asking me about what happened?" young Robert threw his fist in the air, growing cross at himself, "I knew it, I knew it! I should have brought him to you!"

"Oh, no, Robert, this is not the reason for my inquiries. You acted according to what your father would have done, and I have always respected your father's decisions. I only wish to know more about the theft for my curiosity, that is all."

Mr. Knightley saw Robert Martin's reluctant nod, he continued.

"Precisely, what was stolen during the theft?"

"It was the rent money that I put away in the watering can and some farm tools... ah... and some geese!"

"You put your rent money in a watering can?" suppressing his amusement, Mr. Knightley could not help but ask.

"Father has done this for years, Mr. Knightley! As Mother had said it numerous times, Father cared a great deal for those who worked for him, but took very little care when it came to money. He used to put the rent and our labourers' wages in his pocket on the day they were to be collected years ago, but one time he had lost all of it through a hole! Since then Mother had darned all the holes in Father's garments, but decided that it would not do for Father to carry the money in the same way, so Mother devised a scheme for Father - storing the money in an empty watering can and tucking the can up on the highest shelf inside the farm-house. It had been that way ever since!"

"Humph," though still finding it amusing, Mr. Knightley commented sincerely, "your mother is as inventive as your father, Robert!"

Robert Martin grinned smugly.

"So," Mr. Knightley went on asking, "the stolen money and tools were stored in the same farm-house?"

"To be sure!"

"You said that Mr. Anderton begged you not to take him to the magistrate, does it mean that he had confessed the theft to you?"

"Oh, no! The fellow had the gall to keep on denying to no ends, Mr. Knightley! He said that he did not even know the tools were missing until I told him, and of course he denied any knowledge of the money in the watering can. He begged me not to take him to the magistrate because he had just moved into the area and he did not wish everyone to think he was a thief, and also... that he would not wish his wife and children to worry!"

"Did you believe what he said?"

"Well... I could understand why he would not wish everyone to know. Being new to the parish, once his reputation is ruined, it would take a miracle to find work at any farm! With an expectant wife and three children... and he _did_ look distraught when he spoke of his family, that was why I thought of what Father would do and decided to let him go."

"But you did not he was innocent?"

"Of course not, Mr. Knightley! I may be young, but I am not stupid!"

Mr. Knightley beckoned the young farmer to continue.

"You see, Anderton had worked for our farm for almost a month. He was hired as a ploughman. The fellow was very quiet, for many days he hardly spoke more than several words, but he was a hardworking fellow I must grant him that, and for as long as he worked hard, it was better that he did not talk much - one always gets more done when speaking less, you know! And he was kind too, he had often inquired after Father, and I could tell he felt sorry for our family."

"But how did you come to believe he was the thief, Robert?" Mr. Knightley, who had been listening most attentively, asked.

"One day... I believe it was the week before the tools and the money were missing, Anderton pointed out to me that our fences needed fixing. It was the first time he ever spoke to me at length. He led me to see which part of the fences needed fixing and what could be done to renew them. He seemed very knowledgeable on the matter and I was convinced that he was right, so I asked him to use our tools to fix some of the fences."

"How did he do? Did he do a passable job with the fences?" Mr. Knightley was growing exceeding curious of this new comer in the parish.

"Oh no, it was not passable! It was _superb_! Flawless, Mr. Knightley, I had never seen such fine work in my life, granted I am only seventeen, but I dare say Father would have agreed with me!"

"Robert, from what you just told me, Mr. Anderton seemed a very respectable man – he was quiet and kind, he was hardworking, and an excellent hedger!" Mr. Knightley commented, puzzled over how young Robert came to suspect the man as a thief, he then asked, "What made you think he was capable of stealing, Robert?"

The young farmer compressed his lips, thought for a moment, "The man loved tools, Mr. Knightley! He told me that he was once the spadesman and hedger of a large farm, he became excited whenever he spoke of tools; he said he could handle the small cutting-axe and switching-knife with the force and neatness as the dragoon wielded his sabre."

"Really?"

"Yes, I saw him handling them with my own eyes!"

"_Humph... Mr. Anderton loved tools and that was why you thought he was the thief_..." stroking his chin and thinking to himself, Mr. Knightley could not be convinced, and young Robert saw his dubious expression.

"I did not see him stealing, Mr. Knightley, if that's what you are wondering," Robert Martin spoke honestly.

"Then, did anyone at the farm see him stealing?"

"Ah... no... No one saw him!" the seventeen-year-old farmer confessed.

"But you still would not believe he was innocent?" Mr. Knightley asked searchingly.

"Well, Mr. Knightley, the lock to the farm house was not broken when the tools and money were stolen, which means whoever stole them had the key to the lock. Other than me and Father, no one have the key to the farm house where the tools were stored at night. As Anderton was fixing the fences, I gave him the key so that he could lock up the farm house at the end of day. Besides, the fellow knew good tools when he saw them... those tools we had in the farm house were new, barely a month old, and he must have somehow found where I had hidden the money when no one was around... Anderton must have gotten greedy and went down the wrong path!"

Young Robert's reasoning was plausible, Mr. Knightley thought, but one particular piece of intelligence had excited the magistrate's curiosity.

"The stolen tools were only a month old?" he raised an eyebrow, "Did not your father replace the tools before winter came. I remember he had purchased the tools at round the same time we bought ours, as the Donwell home-farm also needed new tools in preparation for digging of new trenches. Why would you have month-old tools in the spring?"

"Yes, Father had bought new tools before winter, before he had fallen ill! But those tools were stolen before the trenches work was complete!"

"_Stolen_?" Mr. Knightley was surprised.

"Yes, Mr. Knightley," the young farmer sighed, "I must have carried a curse to our farm - our tools were stolen _twice_ since I took over the farm from Father!"

"How did the first time happen?"

"Ah...," the young Martin recalled, "we began digging new trenches right when winter came, but before the work was done, the tools were gone! Fortunately the digging was complete; we only had to lay stones and rocks in the trenches and covered them with earth to finish the work."

"That means," Mr. Knightley quickly reckoned, "the two thefts were approximately less than four months apart. Robert, did it ever occur to you that they were connected?"

The young farmer was taken aback by the question, "Ah... no..." rubbing the back of his neck.

"But do you have any reason to suspect that they were connected?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"Ah..." young Robert pondered for a moment, "No! They could not have been connected, Mr. Knightley!"

"How could you be so certain, Robert?"

"Because Hackman saw the thief who stole the tools the first time. The description of the thief was nothing like Anderton!"

"_Hackman_?" even more surprised, Mr. Knightley questioned, "He was there when the first theft happened?"

"Yes, otherwise he could not have seen the thief fleeing!"

"But what was Hackman doing at Abbey Mill Farm?"

"Midway through our trench work, Father had fallen ill. As I could not have completed the work on my own and my two sisters were so young; besides, digging trenches was a man's job, even were my sisters older, Father and I still would not have let them help. So Father suggested bringing in a short term help to complete the work. I knew Hackman was looking for work, and I would have asked for your advice, Mr. Knightley, to see if you thought Hackman was the right man, as he had worked for your farm for many years, but you had gone to London for the birth of your nephew, and I desperately needed help, so I hired him."

"Then Hackman was under your employment when the tools were stolen?"

"Yes, he was."

"And you said he saw the thief?"

"Yes, he told me that he was heading to the farm house to do the lock up and that's when he saw the thief sneaking out with our tools; he had tried to chase him but to no avail! He said he could not recognize the fellow's face, must not be a local; he also said that he was a short stout fellow, weathered skin with carrot-coloured hair, about five and twenty. You see, Mr. Knightley, Anderton is a tall and lanky fellow, with dark hair and long past his twenties, there was no way that it was him who stole the first set of tools; besides I do not think the Andertons had even moved into the parish then!"

"Robert, why did not you report the first theft?" Mr. Knightley asked curiously.

"Mr. Knightley," young Robert sighed, "the first theft happened right at the time when Father's illness had gotten worse... my mind was in so much grief that I simply could not think straight. If Father was well, he would have told me to go to you, I am sure of it... and I am sorry that I did not!"

"Pray do not be harsh on yourself, Robert! At the age of seventeen, you are already bearing the load of your mother, two sisters, and an ailing father; even with a burden so great, Abbey Mill is still thriving just as it was when your father was running it, you are one courageous young man, Robert, and you should be proud of yourself!" Mr. Knightley said very kindly to the young man.

Young Robert Martin smiled sheepishly in response to the encouragement.

After a moment of silence, Mr. Knightley resumed his questions. "When did Hackman's employment at Abbey Mill end?"

"You know, Mr. Knightley, Hackman called us lucky!" a sarcastic snort came out of young Robert, "He said we were lucky that the tools were not stolen before the digging was done! But I'll say _he _was the lucky one – for he would have been terminated earlier had the tools been stolen before the digging was complete! He was gone the day after the tools were taken, Mr. Knightley."

"And I suppose you paid off his wages on the spot?" the landlord asked.

"Certainly!"

"Out of the watering can?" asked Mr. Knightley, with serious intention.

"Yes, I went inside the farm house and retrieved the money from the can," replied the young farmer, plainly.

"Did he see that – that you took money from the watering can?"

"Oh, no! Of course I would not wish anyone to see where I stored the money. I took care to close the farm house door before I climbed up to retrieve the money!"

"Very well!" Mr. Knightley nodded. "Has he worked for Abbey Mill Farm since then?"

"I do not wish him back to Abbey Mill, not ever! There was not a day he came to the farm sober! If not because he was a reputable spadesman, I would never have hired him. He was good for his knowledge of the trenches work; I'll give him that much credit! And it was knowledge that I needed, for I have plenty of strength. He gave me some good advices and those will stay with me for the rest of my life. He had wished to come back though... he came looking for work when spring came round, he was willing to take odd jobs at the farm, but we had already hired Anderton as a ploughman and he could pick up those odd jobs as well." The young farmer lamented, "Perhaps I should have hired the drunk instead of the thief!"

Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin both smiled ruefully at each other.

"And you said some geese were missing?" Mr. Knightley had more questions to ask.

"Yes, they were missing the day after the tools were gone."

"And you think Mr. Anderton took the geese?"

"You know, Mr. Knightley," looking hesitant, young Robert said, "... it is not uncommon to have missing poultry at any farm... but at the time I was so angry at the tool and the rent loss, I thought Anderton must have taken the geese as well!"

"You seem to regret what you had thought, Robert?"

"Well... perhaps... Anderton had denied everything... he even asked me to go with him to his house to look for the tools, the money, and the geese. But only a dumb thief would hide his stolen goods in his house, and Anderton was certainly not a dumb man! The geese could have been taken by someone else, just a coincidence that they were lost the day after the tools and money were gone... but I am certain that Anderton stole the money and the tools!"

Robert Martin saw that his landlord was in deep thought, he asked, "Did I answer all your questions, Mr. Knightley? Were they useful to you?"

"I only have one more question, Robert – other than William Larkins, did you tell anyone that Mr. Anderton stole from your farm?"

"No, Mr. Knightley! I know why you are asking, because within few days, what happened at Abbey Mill was all over town! You see, after I withheld the wages from Anderton, although it was not nearly enough to cover what was stolen, I gave him my word that I would not pursue the matter any further and would not tell this to anyone. The only reason I told Mr. Larkins was because I had not the rent money to give him and must plead for several days grace to gather the money I needed, but he was the only one I told!"

"Then someone else must have spread the words all over town," Mr. Knightley inferred.

Robert Martin shrugged, and he said, "To be sure, but it was not me!"

Mr. Knightley smiled, "Thank you, Robert, you have answered all my questions, and they were indeed very helpful!"

The gentleman and the young man bade each other good-day and went on their own business for the rest of the day.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! :D


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

* * *

Once his interview with young Robert Martin ended, Mr. Knightley went back to Donwell Abbey, hoping to catch Emma before her returning to Hartfield. Ever since Wobble had taken residence at the mansion, the young Hartfield Mistress had spent practically every afternoon at the Abbey keeping the company of her puppy - and the Donwell Master. The gentleman had come to cherish the presence of his young friend, the liveliness she and the puppy brought to the bachelor estate, the sound of her lovely giggles and the energetic barking of the spaniel seemed to have restored the joy that the stately home had once been so full of.

And Mr. Knightley was not the only one who treasured the frequent visits of his young guest. Mrs. Hodges, who had loved little Miss Emma to pieces since she was a babe toddling at the Knightleys' home, was simply ecstatic to cater to the young lady and her beloved pet's whims and fancies. Mrs. Mayson, the Donwell cook who prided her talents in cookery, had found satisfying the easily-pleased palate of her master quite unchallenging, now, with the aim to impress, had the joy of experimenting a brand new torte or pudding and concocting savoury puppy meals every day. Then there was Mr. Hodges, the head gardener of Donwell, the keeper of all the amazing gardens at the Abbey, who loved watching the young lady chasing her pup through his gardens like a flourishing butterfly fluttering over his handy masterpieces. Even Harry, the oldest servant at the Abbey (both in age and in years of service) found the kindness and the sweetness of Miss Emma the most sincere and enchanting; the old footman might be clumsy with his feet, his wrinkly face and mild stammers might be loathsome to the vulgar upstarts, but the old servant had a mind that was sharp as a swordsman's blade – for, years ago, old Harry was the first to prophesy that the eldest Miss Woodhouse would become the wife of the younger Knightley master; and now, the wise man had a secret hope, unbeknown to any souls except his own, that one day in a distant future, the youngest Miss Woodhouse would follow her sister's footsteps to become another Mrs. Knightley, the lady of the ancient house, the Mistress of Donwell Abbey.

But this afternoon, when Mr. Knightley walked into the Abbey, the ancient house was quiet – although Wobble did run up to him wagging his tail excitedly, the lovely giggles of his young friend were not to be heard.

He knelt down to give Wobble some affectionate pats, and said to the spaniel, half-asking half-regretting, "I take that Emma is not at the Abbey, huh?"

Wobbled rubbed his furry head against his master's palm and whimpered – as if answering his master's question and sharing his disappointment.

But Emma had been at the Abbey – Mr. Knightley walked into the drawing-room and saw traces of her presence everywhere. He picked up the half-started infant cap from Emma's knitting basket laying aside on the sofa. _S__he finally started working on Henry's cap - again_! The gentleman mused, smilingly. Emma had started knitting the cap for their baby nephew a month ago, but once Wobble entered into her life, she was forever distracted. He was glad that she resumed working on the cap, but wondered how far she would get this time - an endearing smile broke out of the gentleman's face as he wondered.

Mr. Knightley walked into the library - Emma had been there as well. A book was left opened on the small table between the armchairs. _Humph – she was reading in the library – what could she be reading_? He was curious, decided to walk over to see the book. He picked up the opened book, which was turned to page three, his mouth twitched when he snapped it closed and saw the title, _The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire__, _he was amused and thought that either she was bored to her ears or she was so restless that she had to resort to reading this book.

"It was fortunate that she only got to page three, Wobble!" speaking amusingly to the puppy hovering at his feet, Mr. Knightley chuckled, "Still the Emma that we know!"

For all the lectures that Mr. Knightley had given Emma urging her to read more, if the truth be told - he would not trade the nonsensical girl for the most accomplished lady scholar in all of England – but – he would never, ever tell her this truth!

Looking up from the book, Mr. Knightley saw something on his enormous writing desk. He strode over there to see what it was.

It was one of Emma's two sketchbooks – one of them was safely stowed away in Hartfield, and this was the one she kept at Donwell. The sketchbook was left opened on his desk. She was taking the likeness of Wobble – it was not quite done yet, but had already taken shape very nicely. Emma might not excel in a particular talent, but her true talent lied in her ability to do well in anything that she put her mind into. The lines and shades on the sketch were precise and confident, the accuracy in the contour of the puppy could be readily discerned, and the liveliness of the spaniel had already come through without it being finished. There was one flaw though, Mr. Knightley noticed, she had given Wobble eyes that he did not have. The eyes were handsomely drawn, fairly large, not too full but soft in expressions, just as a sighted spaniel should be - but Wobble was not a sighted spaniel! Even without his eyesight, Wobble was the happiest and most loved puppy Mr. Knightley had ever seen. Perhaps Emma was still too young to understand that her beloved puppy needed not his sight to be happy and content, and, perhaps it was her wish to gift the puppy his sight to make him whole – only that she could not do it in real life, she would do it in his likeness!

He noticed that Wobble's tail was only half drawn. _Why would not she finish the drawing? _Mr. Knightley wondered. Then he saw the pencil that had rolled to the edge of the desk, looked like it was dropped out of her hand abruptly. He moved behind the writing desk and discovered that her shawl was on the floor. He picked up the garment, walked out of the library searching for Harry.

"When did Miss Emma leave the Abbey, Harry?"

"Miss Emma and h-her maid left only s-seconds before you came in, sir, t-through the side door by the k-kitchen, Mr. Knightley."

"Thank you, Harry."

When he called on Hartfield that morning, Emma happened to be out doing her exercise in the garden. After assuring that Mr. Woodhouse's chill had improved and that the old gentlemen was in tolerable spirit, he walked to the garden wishing to speak to his young friend. He walked through the entire Hartfield ground, even the shrubberies, but had not the fortune to find her. Now, upon hearing that she had left in such hurry before he came into the Abbey, Mr. Knightley understood, he sighed inwardly, "She is still upset with me!"

* * *

The next day came; Mr. Knightley had set forth on his business early in the morning. He did not visit the Woodhouses though, instead, he went to call on someone who found his presence most unexpected.

"Good morning, Miss Anderton," the Donwell Master greeted very politely at the back of the peasant girl.

Agnes was sweeping the small pavement in front of their humble cottage. Startled by the male's voice, she turned round, and the broom almost fell out of her hands when she saw who it was.

"Ah... good... good morning... Mr. Knightley!" the fifteen-year-old curtsied awkwardly, but a sudden fear struck her causing her to stagger back a step. "What are you doing here?" she sounded almost hostile, "I did not take anything from your house... Do not you dare accuse me of stealing from you!"

Mr. Knightley was taken aback by Agnes's unfounded enmity, but the gentleman remained composed. "Miss Anderton, what gave you the notion that I thought you had taken anything from my house?" he asked kindly.

"If you did not think I stole from you... why... why would you come here today?" Her tone had softened a little, but the fear in her voice was unmistakable.

"Miss Anderton, I came here this morning wishing to speak with your father. Is Mr. Anderton home?" Mr. Knightley asked politely.

"Ah... no... Papa went to gather wood for our stove..." Agnes replied, her eyes full of suspicions.

"In that case, as I have not the opportunity to call on your parents since you moved into the parish, would it be intruding to give my regards to Mrs. Anderton?"

"Ah... Mama and my sister went to the market... have not returned!"

"Humph," the gentleman was disappointed.

A little five-year-old boy suddenly emerged from the back of the house, "Who is he?" he asked his sister.

"Be quiet, Nicolas!" Agnes hushed her little brother, "Go inside the house - _now_!"

"No, I shall stay!" the little boy would not listen; instead, he clung onto his sister's skirt staring at the gentleman curiously.

"Why would you wish to speak with my Papa?" Agnes turned her attention back to their visitor and this question just burst out of her mouth.

"I wish to discuss with him a particular matter," supplied Mr. Knightley.

"If you are here to accuse my Papa of stealing from Abbey Mill Farm," Agnes's hostility returned, "you are wasting your time! My Papa never took anything from them... whatever they said is a lie!"

"Miss Anderton," amused, Mr. Knightley spoke patiently at the peasant girl, "you seem to believe that my interest only lies in accusing the members of your family stealing or taking things from others. May I ask where you received such notion?"

"Ah..." Agnes frowned, blushing in embarrassment, "ah... "

"_Papa_!" little Nicolas let go of his sister's skirt and ran away when he saw his father emerging from some distance away.

"_Nicolas_..." Agnes called out, and she also spotted her father walking toward the cottage in a far distance. She ran after her brother to her papa.

She reached her father, panting, "Pa...pa..." while trying to catch her breath, the pale girl started coughing dreadfully.

Mr. Anderton instantly laid down the logs and began stroking his daughter's back to sooth her coughs, he charged his son, "Nicolas, go inside the house and fetch a glass of water for Agnes."

"Can you breathe, Agnes?" the father asked anxiously.

Agnes nodded in quick succession, she took a few deep breaths and said brokenly, "He... he... he's here..."

"_Who_ is here?" the father looked up, his gaze following Agnes's finger pointing to a gentleman standing in front of his house. "Who is he?" he asked curiously.

"He's the..." heaving several deep breaths again, Agnes said, "he's the... magistrate..."

"_The_ _magistrate_!" Mr. Anderton frowned severely, "What is he doing here?" There was anger in his voice.

"I do not know, Papa..." the daughter replied in distress, "but, pray, do not let him take you away!"

"Do not be distressed, Agnes!" the father assured, "Papa never did anything wrong, no one could take me away – not even the magistrate!"

Nicolas returned as charged. Mr. Anderton gave some water to Agnes, made certain that her breathing resumed to a normal state; the father then squeezed his daughter's arm, ruffled his son's dark unruly hair, told them to go inside the house to tend their baby sister, and walked to the unsolicited visitor in front of his house.

"I take that you must be Mr. Anderton?" in his unpretentious gentlemanlike manners, Mr. Knightley was the one who spoke first.

"Yes, I am. Who are you?" Mr. Anderson asked cautiously.

"My name is George Knightley, my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Anderton." Mr. Knightley took his bow graciously.

"So you are our landlord and the county magistrate," said Mr. Anderton coldly, purposely neglecting to return the courtesy of the gentleman's bow.

Mr. Knightley nodded politely to acknowledge his unfriendly host.

Mr. Anderton's dark eyes stared severely at Mr. Knightley, "If you have come to accuse me of stealing from Abbey Mill Farm, you are wasting your time - I never took anything from that place!"

Judging from the reaction of Agnes earlier, Mr. Knightley had fully expected to be met with considerable unfriendliness from Mr. Anderton. The gentleman had prepared himself well, and he was not the slightest moved by the man's hostility.

Mr. Knightley smiled graciously, "Mr. Anderton, you are mistaken, my coming here to your cottage this morning has nothing to do with accusations of any sort."

"Then - what is it that you want?" Mr. Anderton asked guardedly.

"Mr. Anderton, I have heard that you were once the spadesman and hedger of a large farm..." before Mr. Knightley could finish his sentence, he was curtly cut off.

"Where did you hear that? I never told anyone other than Robert Martin!"

"Indeed it was Mr. Martin who gave me the intelligence."

"Then he must have told you to come today... why did you lie to me?" Mr. Anderton cried out in great agitation.

Mr. Knightley continued to be composed, "Mr. Anderton, you did not let me finish what I wished to say. May I ask you to refrain from making premature conclusion and allow me to continue?"

The agitated man frowned, he nodded unwillingly.

"Thank you." Mr. Knightley continued, "As I was saying, I have come to learn that you were once the spadesman and hedger of a large farm. May I inquire, Mr. Anderton, how long you were employed in the functionaries?"

"Why do you wish to know?"

"If you would oblige my few questions, Mr. Anderton, I assure you that I shall reveal my intention before our meeting ends, and I also assure you that it is _not_ Abbey Mill Farm that my inquiries are intended."

Mr. Anderton looked hesitated at first, but he did answer, watchfully, "Almost ten years."

"And during those years, may I ask what duties you had performed?"

The farm labourer was bewildered by the gentleman's questions; he wondered where his answers, if he answered, would lead. He was pensive for a long moment (while Mr. Knightley waited patiently), but slowly he came to reply, "My principal duty was to take charge of the hedge fences and ditches of the farm, cut and cleaned them as they required in the course of the season. I also renewed fences, ran new ones betwixt fields. I made cuts with the spade across ridges, for the surface-water to find its way to the ditches."

"Then - you are an experienced drainer?"

"Absolutely! As the cutting of drains should be executed with industry, it is best done by an expert spadesman, which is what I had been for more than ten years. It was my duty to examine the nature of the subsoil, determine the depth of the drains, fix the distance between them, cut the drains with precisions, and lay them where they ought in the ground. It was also my duty to superintend the making of drains, which, when done in a large scale, was generally executed by hired labourers on piece-work."

"So you are an experienced drainer _and _an accomplished farm-servant?"

"Strictly of the highest grade!" Mr. Anderton declared proudly. "_But_..." looking suspicious again, he questioned, "what do my old duties have anything to do with you?"

Mr. Knightley smiled, "Perhaps it is time to make my intention known, Mr. Anderton. I came here as a landlord looking for a spadesman and hedger for my home-farm."

"Was not Hackman your spadesman and hedger in the past?"

"Ah, so you have heard of Mr. Hackman?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"Only through Robert Martin... he told me that Hackman used to work for the Donwell home-farm."

"Indeed. Have you met Mr. Hackman in person?"

"I saw him couple times at Abbey Mill Farm," Mr. Anderton replied plainly.

Mr. Knightley grew curious, "And do you recall when and what time of day you saw him at the farm?"

Mr. Anderton searched his memories, "The first time was in the morning, I had started working at Abbey Mill not long before. He had gone to the farm looking for work, but was told off by Robert Martin."

"And the second time..." prompted Mr. Knightley.

"The second time... was several days before Robert Martin threw me out of the farm!" Mr. Anderton recalled bitterly. "It was after dusk, I was locking up the farm house when he came."

"Did he give you the reason for his coming to the farm?"

"He said he was looking for Robert Martin... he said he thought he might find him there at the farm house."

"Was Robert Martin often expected at the farm house at that hour?" Mr. Knightley asked thoughtfully.

"No. He was often gone by dusk. I was always the last one to leave. I told Hackman to come back earlier in the day if he wished to speak to the young man."

"Humph – did Mr. Hackman leave upon not finding Robert Martin?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"No, he watched me locking up the farm house and chatted up with me a bit," Mr. Anderton replied.

"Do you recall what you spoke of?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"Nothing particular, I am not one who likes to converse, but he asked of my family and I thanked him for it. He was surprised to see me leaving so late, so he asked if I was always working so hard. He asked me how I liked working at the farm..." Mr. Anderton seemed annoyed by the gentleman's many questions, he said impatiently, "_Look_! I was not in the mood of speaking with him or anyone, so I quickly locked up the farm house and left!"

Mr. Knightley found the intelligence regarding Hackman's visits at Abbey Mill Farm revealing; he was silent for a moment while focused in thoughts.

"Did you say that you came looking for someone to fill the position at your farm? If you wished to hire Hackman, why do not you go speak to him instead?" Mr. Anderton remarked bluntly.

"No, Mr. Anderton, Hackman had worked for our farm, but he is not the right person I have in mind for the position."

"_Then_..." Mr. Anderton hesitated, "ah... are you thinking of... _me_?"

Mr. Knightley smiled and nodded.

"But _why_?" astounded Mr. Anderton, staring disbelievingly at the gentleman. "Why would you wish me for the post? Have not you heard all the other farm owners said that I was a _thief_?" he asked bitterly.

"But are you a thief, Mr. Anderton?" asked Mr. Knightley, discerningly.

"No!" Mr. Anderton cried out vehemently, "I am _NOT_!"

"Then why is it so difficult to believe that I have you in mind for the post?" searchingly Mr. Knightley asked.

Mr. Anderton was wordless for a long moment, staring blankly at Mr. Knightley as if asking himself the very same question.

"I suppose..." Mr. Anderton began quietly, "it has been too long since someone was willing to give me a chance!"

Mr. Knightley regarded Mr. Anderton respectfully, and allowed the man some time to collect himself.

Several moments later, "So... this is... it?" Mr. Anderton still looked dismayed, "You would hire me... just... just... like this?"

"No," Mr. Knightley smiled, "not just yet!" He saw the anxious look on Mr. Anderton's face.

"I never employ any labourer without the concurrence of my bailiff. William Larkins have very discerning eyes for capable farm-labourers. As all our farm-labourers are under the superintendence of William Larkins, he must find you the most suitable labourer for our farm before you would be employed. Therefore, if you are interested in the employment, the burden shall be yours to prove to him that you are the best person for it.

"You could find Mr. Larkins in the corn fields at the Donwell home-farm at two o'clock this afternoon, and when you see him, tell him that I had given you the intelligence of where to find him and he shall be obliged to speak with you."

Mr. Anderton was in such a state of dismay that his wit evaded him.

Mr. Knightley considered his speechlessness and decided it was time to take leave. "I have taken enough of your time this morning, Mr. Anderton. I regret that I must leave before Mrs. Anderton's return. Pray give your wife my regards."

Mr. Knightley took his bow cordially.

The encountering with the Donwell Master had felt too much like a dream. Mr. Anderton slowly awakened to take his bow, though still in shock, and watched the gentleman turned round to leave.

But before Mr. Knightley had walked hardly several yards, Mr. Anderton called out suddenly, "Why... why are not you like the rest of them?"

Mr. Knightley stopped walking; he stood there listening to the man.

"I mean... why would you believe that I am _not_ a thief... when no one else would?"

The gentleman turned round, walked back to where he left Mr. Anderton. He said reflectively, "I was once one of those who thought that you were guilty of the theft – only because of what I heard and whom I heard it from! But a friend reminded me wisely that I should not believe in something simply based on someone's words. I went to speak with Robert Martin about the thefts at Abbey Mill Farm, and have many reasons to believe that you are innocent, Mr. Anderton!"

"_Thefts_? You mean there had been more than one?" asked Mr. Anderton, astonished.

"Yes, there was another theft at Abbey Mill three months before you moved into the parish. It was also farm tools that were stolen in that theft."

"Were the two thefts connected?" Mr. Anderton asked anxiously.

"I have a strong suspicion that they were," supplied Mr. Knightley.

"Then... will you find the thief... and clear my name?" Mr. Anderton implored.

"_That_ is my intention, Mr. Anderton," Mr. Knightley replied.

It felt like a load of heavy boulders had been lifted off Mr. Anderton's shoulders. The man who had once been crushed was now able to breathe. It did not matter that everyone else believed that he was guilty of a crime that he did not commit so long as the magistrate was willing to believe in his innocence. For the first time in their meeting, Mr. Anderton was grateful for the presence of the Donwell Master, and was able to say with unmistakable sincerity, "Thank you, Mr. Knightley!"

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

* * *

"Come quick, Miss Taylor, we must take our leave _now_!" Emma was standing by the window in the Donwell Abbey library with Wobble in her arms. As soon as she spotted the familiar tall frame walking on the far edge of the extensive ground in the front of the Abbey, she twirled round and beckoned her governess to take leave with her straight away.

Sitting in one of the armchairs, Miss Taylor was engrossed in her embroidery when Emma's sudden beckoning startled her causing her needle to slip and prick her finger.

The young Hartfield Mistress cuddled her beloved puppy one last time, squeezing the fur-ball to her cheek, pressing an affectionate kiss on his furry head before letting him down on the floor. She picked up her shawl and bonnet and ran straight out of the library. But when she turned round to discover that her governess was not behind her, she hurried back inside and said pressingly, "Miss Taylor, come quick, we must leave before Mr. Knightley sees us!"

Miss Taylor gathered her sewing basket, stood up from the armchair and sighed. In her gentle exasperation, she asked her charge, "When are you going to stop this nonsense, Emma?"

Emma was too busy tying her bonnet and putting on her shawl to answer Miss Taylor's question.

"My dear Emma," a soft frown had formed between the governess's brows, "do not you think it is incredibly rude to be leaving without at least greeting Mr. Knightley?"

Emma looked up in her round eyes, "Of course it is incredibly rude to leave without greeting Mr. Knightley, which is why we must leave before he sees us!" Now that her bonnet and shawl were secured Emma started tugging Miss Taylor at her elbow.

"Emma," standing firm where she was, Miss Taylor added, "you have been avoiding Mr. Knightley the last three days, today is the fourth day, are you going to hide from him for the rest of your life?"

"Of course not, Miss Taylor!" Emma said a-matter-of-factly, "Only for as long as he cannot catch me!"

"But why, Emma? Mr. Knightley is your best friend, how could you be upset with him for this long?"

As Miss Taylor refused to leave, Emma dashed back to the window to see how far Mr. Knightley was from the mansion. She gasped!

"He is _almost_ half way through the ground... he will be coming inside the house soon... pray, Miss Taylor... we must leave now!" the fourteen-year-old implored.

"But Emma, you cannot still be upset with Mr. Knightley, can you?" Miss Taylor asked.

"No, Miss Taylor..." with one eye looking out the window, the other entreating her governess, "I am not upset with Mr. Knightley..." murmured Emma.

"Then why are you running from him?" Miss Taylor pursued.

"Because... because... I do not wish to be scolded!" Emma finally confessed; her face went red from ear to ear.

"_Scolded_?" repeated Miss Taylor bewilderedly, "Why would Mr. Knightley scold you, my dear?"

"Because it is _too_ _late_!" Emma exclaimed.

"_Too late..." _Miss Taylor was at a loss.

The young lady saw the need to explain, she said, "You see, Miss Taylor, I was indeed cross with Mr. Knightley at first. On the first day, I knew he would be calling on Papa in the morning, which was why I hid in the barn so that he could not find me..."

The tall figure outside the window was growing taller and taller as she spoke, Emma was growing extremely anxious. Unfortunately, Miss Taylor shared none of her frenzy, the governess kept her gaze on her charge beckoning her to go on. So Emma had no choice but continued.

"But by nightfall I was no longer upset with him. Then on the second morning when he came calling Hartfield, I thought it would be amusing to hide from him again - and sure it was! I peered through the drawing-room entrance from the outside and saw how disappointed he looked when he thought I was avoiding him again; my giggles almost burst and gave me away!"

Miss Taylor's shook her head in amazement; somehow, her mischievous charge of almost ten years still had not ceased to amuse her. Her curiosity drove her to ask, "Then why did you keep on hiding from him even the following day?"

"Well... as I had so much amusement on the second day, I thought it would not hurt to drag it on one more day..."

"Humph!" Miss Taylor's mouth arched, repressing her smiles, "Was it amusing then?"

Emma pouted. "No!" she grumbled, "It was not amusing at all! I was beginning to miss Mr. Knightley's company dreadfully!"

Miss Taylor shook her head again, this time her gentle face broke out a motherly smile, "Then why do not we stay and wait for him to come in, Emma?"

"But we must not!" The young lady looked positively frantic. "As much as I miss Mr. Knightley's company, he must be annoyed by my avoiding him for three whole days!"

"Would not it be all the more important to stop this nonsense at once, my silly girl?"

"But it is _too_ late to stop now, Miss Taylor! Mr. Knightley must think me absurd, and when he sees me, even if he does not scold me, he would surely lecture me till my ears turn purple!"

"Emma, Mr. Knightley would never be so harsh on you!"

"But... one... could never be sure..." the young lady's very uncertain voice trailed off – little did her governess know what horrid pictures her guilt-ridden charge's conscience had drawn in her youthful mind the last two days, imagining the very annoyed Mr. Knightley (very out of his character though, she admitted) poking his righteous finger at the tip of her nose, lecturing her in the most severe manner, telling her how wretched it was of her to be hiding from him for so long. The imaginative youth had been worrying herself to nightmares for two nights with these vivid fancied images!

"But, Emma, do not you think that you _do_ deserve to be lectured – for acting like a little child?" Miss Taylor thought it was her duty to point this out, gently however.

Emma looked guiltily at her governess at first, "_Yes_... I know I _do_ deserve to be lectured..." however to justify her own doing, she protested, "But it would not do _this_ time... he was in the wrong _first_ – for believing that Mr. Anderton was guilty of stealing from Abbey Mill Farm!"

"But we do not know what the truth is, do we?" Miss Taylor asked with wisdom.

Though Emma wholeheartedly believed in Mr. Anderton's innocence, she could not deny that just as there was no proof to convict the man for the theft at Abbey Mill Farm, the same held true for his unproven innocence. She looked down at her hands refusing to answer.

And when she looked up and looked out the window again, the tall figure - to her mortification - was no longer in sight! She laid both her hands on her governess's forearm and begged, "Pray, Miss Taylor, Mr. Knightley is coming in any moment, we must leave now... this is the last time... I promise you... pray, Miss Taylor..."

Miss Taylor finally agreed and followed Emma's footsteps hastening out of the library, exiting Donwell Abbey through the side entrance by the kitchen.

* * *

Another two days had gone by and the very fanciful young lady still refused to face her best friend.

"Emma, I thought you had promised me that you would not hide from Mr. Knightley any longer?" Miss Taylor asked kindly.

The young person whom Miss Taylor was speaking to happened to be lounging listlessly on the window seat in the Green Parlour. Boredom had been spilling out of her ears for the last two days, but the silly girl would rather suffer than having to own her follies.

"But Miss Taylor," lazily Emma shifted her bored gaze from the placid scenery outside the window to her governess's gentle face, "I only promised not to run from Mr. Knightley at _Donwell_, I did not promise not to hide from him at _Hartfield_!"

Miss Taylor shook her head amusingly; and she knew just the very thing to cheer up her charge.

"Would you like to accompany me to the Ford's to get laces for the handkerchiefs that I am embroidering for my sisters?"

Young Emma looked up with a little more vigour, "The Ford's..." she considered, "since I cannot go to Donwell to play with Wobble, I suppose a little outing would do no harm!"

* * *

An hour later, after seeing to Mr. Woodhouse's comfortably situated in his armchair by the oppressive summer fire, both Emma and Miss Taylor set out on their journey to the Ford's. But hardly had they reached the shrubberies within the Hartfield iron-gate, Miss Taylor realized that she had neglected to bring along the handkerchiefs to match the colour of the laces that she needed. The governess asked her charge to wait for her on the stone bench in the shrubberies while she went back to the house to fetch the fabrics. Though Emma had no qualms of returning to the house with Miss Taylor to fetch what her governess needed, Miss Taylor insisted that Emma must wait for her by the bench and she would return in moments. Under Miss Taylor's insistence, Emma abided.

Sinking down on the bench, the Hartfield Mistress waited patiently for her governess, but only that the moments had past, Miss Taylor had not returned as she promised. Emma stood up attempting to look through the dense shrubberies for the traces of her governess to no avail. Then, as she was tapping her feet mindlessly on the ground, she heard the most unexpected sound, which had the effect of instantly brightening up her beautiful yet dull face.

It was the barking sound of a dog, and it was not the barking sound of just any dog - it was the most exciting sound of her beloved Wobble! The ball of fur was running in his patent speed toward his beloved mistress, with one well-practised leap, he was in Emma's arms. Sounds of her loveliest giggles and the puppy's enthusiastic barking filled the placid summer air at once.

Clasping the fur-ball to her cheeks, Emma said tenderly to the spaniel, "I have not seen you for _two_ days, Wobble, I miss you so much! How on earth did you get here, you little rascal?"

While the squirming furry offered his answers in barks and wet tickles, the emerging shadow of a particular gentleman answered Emma's question.

"Good afternoon, Emma!" came the warm voice of the gentleman.

Emma was shocked to a gasp, she needed not looking up to see who the owner of the voice was.

"Good... good afternoon... Mr. Knightley..." averting her eyes and face behind Wobble's fine coat, Emma squeaked out most unprepared.

"You know," Mr. Knightley reached out a hand gently pulling the puppy away from Emma's face, "Wobble has not grown quite big enough for you to hide behind him yet!" The gentleman was amused.

The young lady smiled ruefully at the gentleman – if it was not for her fancied images of Mr. Knightley scolding her severely, Emma would have been elated to see her pup and her best friend so unexpectedly.

"How did you... how did you know I was here?" she stammered.

Mr. Knightley smiled but did not answer.

Instantly, Emma's wit told her that Mr. Knightley had acquired himself an aid. "Hah! Miss Taylor and you..." she frowned incredulously, looking at him with her brilliant round eyes, "You two tricked me!"

The laughing in his eyes seemed to consent with her conjecture.

The young lady stamped her foot, and if not because her arms were full of the fur-ball, she would have folded her arms to show the gentleman that she was not pleased!

"How have you been, Emma?" breaking his silence, "I have not seen you for five days!" Mr. Knightley remarked kindly.

"Ah... I have... ah... not been so well... I am recovering from... from a chill..." She feigned a sniff and a dry cough.

"Humph - a chill!" Mr. Knightley repeated amusingly. Emma nodded in quick succession.

"As I recall," Mr. Knightley cocked an eyebrow, "five days ago, Miss Taylor informed me that you had acquired a horrid headache after reading for too long; four days ago, Kate told me that you sprang your ankle while practicing on the pianoforte; three days ago your father said that you had a disagreeable stomach for eating too much of the strawberries that I sent to Hartfield; two days ago, Serle ran out of the kitchen armed with a cleaver, which _almost_ casted your father to a faint, announcing that you had formed a mysterious rash from touching his ducklings; and yesterday, I believe, your Hartfield footman told me that you had contracted mumps!" He said it most teasingly, but Emma's ears were growing so hot and throbbing that she could barely distinguish his tone.

"Would you care to tell me, Emma, exactly _which_ dreadful illness had stricken you the past few days?"

The fanciful youth winced – amazed by her incompetent accomplices' inability to keep their stories straight! - except, of course, for her father who honestly believed that she was suffering from poor digestion when she excused herself from breakfast only a minute before their gentleman-neighbour came into the Hartfield dining-room three mornings ago.

"All of them..." she blurted out - out of desperation - out of wit!

"All of them!" repeated Mr. Knightley, stifling his laughs, "My dear Emma, surely you look _remarkably_ well for having been stricken with so many illnesses all at once in only few days!"

Her face went from pink to red and warm to furiously hot! As hard as she tried to be unaffected by his incisive remarks, Emma was fully aware that she had reached the point of no escape, even if she could conjure up tales upon tales to mend the incoherent stories of her clumsy accomplices, she could never lie bold-facedly to her very sensible friend - she could bear it no longer!

"I give up!" the young Hartfield Mistress declared, "I am not fooling anybody, especially you, Mr. Knightley!"

The gentleman smiled, "Very wise, Emma! I am most glad that your senses have not taken leave due to the multitude of your illnesses."

"Fine!" she pouted, "I know what you are about, Mr. Knightley!"

"You _do_?" the gentleman was surprised.

"Of course, you are going to scold me, are not you?" Emma saw the bewildered looks on his face, but she would not be taken. "Do not play fools with me, Mr. Knightley! You are going to lecture me on how I should have told you that I was upset with you... and that as friends we should be honest with each other with our scruples and feelings... and that it was cowardly of me to... to be hiding from you for so long!"

"Ah, I see!" straightening the amused arch on his mouth, Mr. Knightley purposely pulled a severe face, "I think you are right in all you said, Emma. You _do_ deserve to be scolded for hiding from me for five long days."

"_Fine_ – so be it!" the guilt-ridden youth bravely faced the sentence of her adjudicator; she lifted her chin, squeezed her eyes tight, and perked up her ears preparing to be chastised. "I am listening!"

"Well then, do not mind if I do." A suspenseful pause hung in the air. "Emma..." Mr. Knightley cleared his throat and said, "_T__hank you_!" most sincerely.

One of her tight-shut-eyes sprang open, Emma sneaked a peek at Mr. Knightley's face; she waited – but he said no more!

"Was _that_ it?" she asked sceptically.

"Hum, hum!" the gentleman nodded.

She thought she had mistaken, so she asked, cautiously, "Did you just thank _me_?"

Mr. Knightley nodded again, tucking away the curls on his lips.

Emma was baffled! "What on earth did you thank me for?" she asked.

Mr. Knightley smiled warmly at her, "For being honest with me with your opinion on the Abbey Mill Farm theft, for standing firm on something that you believe strongly, for reminding me that I should not have believed in something merely based on someone's words!"

Emma recalled what she had said to Mr. Knightley six days ago before the commencement of her folly, but his sudden confession had moved her to speechlessness – she stared at him wondering if she was in a dream!

Mr. Knightley saw the dazed expression on her face, he explained, "The day after our disagreement, I went to Abbey Mill Farm to speak with Mr. Martin on the theft."

"You _did_?" Emma's hazel eyes widened.

"Yes, I did. I thought about what you said after you left Donwell; you were right, Emma! I should never have believed that Mr. Anderton was the one who committed the theft just because of what I heard, so I wished to gather more intelligence to form an informed opinion."

"And what did you find out?" Emma's curiosity was breathlessly piqued.

Emma let Wobble down on the ground to hover about her skirt while both she and Mr. Knightley sat down on the stone bench.

"I have learnt that there had been another theft less than four months prior, and that the thief had stolen a set of tools, which were replaced subsequently and stolen again, along with the rent money."

"Another _theft_... _four months prior_..." Emma's nimble mind churned rapidly, "the Andertons had not even moved into the parish then... that means Mr. Anderton most definitely could not have committed that crime..." She had reached her conclusion and a deduction was quickly formed, "Could the two thefts be related?" she asked eagerly, placing a hand on Mr. Knightley's forearm.

"Our minds are on the same path, Emma!" he gave her hand a gentle pat and continued, "I have a strong suspicion that they were."

"Why is that?" asked she.

"Well, remember Hackman?"

"You mean... the old spadesman and hedger at Donwell... the one who had a drinking habit?"

Mr. Knightley nodded. "He was working at Abbey Mill Farm when the first theft took place, and according to Mr. Anderton, Hackman went back to the farm couple times after his employment at the farm ended."

Emma was surprised to hear that Mr. Knightley had met with Agnes's father. "So you have spoken with Mr. Anderton?"

"Hum," the gentleman nodded, "I needed to speak with him..." he paused, watching for Emma's reaction.

"Did you..." she asked warily, "did you wish to speak with him about the theft?"

Smiling, Mr. Knightley said, "Not particularly. After my meeting with Mr. Martin, I had many reasons to believe that Mr. Anderton was mistakenly accused."

"Then... why did you go see him?" Emma asked with even greater curiosity.

"Since Hackman was let go, the spadesman and hedger position at Donwell has not been filled..."

Emma gasped in excitement! She seized Mr. Knightley's hand in hers. "Did you hire Mr. Anderton for the position, Mr. Knightley? Did you? Pray say yes... pray say yes!" the young lady pleaded earnestly.

Mr. Knightley chuckled! "Not so quick, young lady!"

Emma's hazel eyes were beaming with anticipation; impatiently, she waited for Mr. Knightley to speak further.

"I indeed went to speak with him regarding the position, but the task of hiring remained within William Larkins' duties. Mr. Anderton must receive Larkins' approval in order to be employed at the Donwell home-farm."

"But he did get Mr. Larkins' approval... did not he?" asked Emma anxiously.

"Well," Mr. Knightley smiled, "according to William Larkins, Mr. Anderton did very well demonstrating his superior knowledge in the care of hedges, and skills in handling the spades, the pick, the small cutting-axe and switching-knife. So, yes, he did get the approval of Larkins, Emma!"

Emma clasped Mr. Knightley's hand even tighter, she was ecstatic to learn that her new friend's family would not have to live on scraps when winter came, and she felt even more grateful for her best friend's liberality of mind to forgo any unsubstantiated belief that Mr. Anderton was a thief.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Knightley, you are very kind!" Emma said it with immense gratitude.

Mr. Knightley returning Emma's gratitude and sincerity in the same degree, he said, "It was your kindness to the Andertons and unwavering conviction in believing Mr. Anderton's innocence that awakened me from my misconception, so _I_ must be the one to thank _you_, Emma!"

The young lady blushed, looking down – but secretly basking in the open approval of the superior gentleman.

Emma did not forget the subject of their conversation before they began speaking of Mr. Anderton; once her blush dissipated, she looked up and asked, "What about the two thefts at Abbey Mill Farm, Mr. Knightley? You had mentioned Mr. Hackman... do you think he had something to do with them?"

"Emma," looking grave, Mr. Knightley said, "it pains me to suspect that Hackman has anything to do with the thefts. But ever since he acquired his drinking habit two years ago, he has not been the same man. And from William Larkins, I heard that he has gotten heavily involved in gaming recently, and has incurred some debts. I wonder if he might have resorted to stealing in order to pay his debts."

"But Mr. Knightley, what made you think that Mr. Hackman might be the thief?"

"You see, Emma, the tools lost in the first theft were new, and the theft happened when Hackman was working at Abbey Mill Farm, he was in charge of locking up of the farm house where the tools were stored. Hackman knew the worth of those tools and he had access to them, they might have been too tempting for someone who was in debt."

"What about the second theft, how do you connect Mr. Hackman to it?" Emma asked, naturally.

"The day when Mr. Martin ended Hackman's employment, he went to the farm house to fetch Hackman's wages, I reckon that Hackman must have found out that the Martins stored money inside the farm house. Mr. Anderton said that Hackman came looking for Mr. Martin one evening after dusk. You see, Hackman, who had worked for Mr. Martin before, should have known that Mr. Martin had left the farm already, but yet he still went there looking for him in that late hour. And according to Mr. Anderton, Hackman was surprised to find Mr. Anderton there working so late."

"So, are you suspecting that Mr. Hackman was not really looking for Mr. Martin when he went to Abbey Mill Farm?"

Mr. Knightley nodded. "And what's more, Mr. Martin said that the lock to the farm house, where the tools were stored at night, was intact even after the theft. That means whoever had stolen the tools had the key to the lock. Mr. Anderton did have the key when he worked there..."

"Which was why" interjected Emma, "Mr. Martin thought Mr. Anderton was the one who stole the tools and the money!"

Mr. Knightley agreed.

"Could there be a more simpleton than that Mr. Martin?" Emma said crossly, "Mr. Hackman, who once bore the responsibility of locking up the farm house, must have possession of the key at one point or another! How could Mr. Martin fail to account for such obvious fact? Why cannot he see the connection between the two thefts?" Crossing her arms, the young lady grudged, "Or was his mind so fixated at the profit and loss of his farm that he was too muddled to apply simple sense!"

"Be charitable, Emma!" Mr. Knightley reproached, "Not everyone's mind turns as swiftly as yours!"

Emma frowned, feeling unjust for her friend's family, she protested, "But it was because of Mr. Martin's inability to see the connection that he had accused an innocent man, Mr. Knightley! Think of how much Mr. Anderton, and his family, must have suffered for being wrongly accused of something that he did not do!"

Mr. Knightley let out a sigh, silently agreeing that Emma was right, but he added, "I assure you that Mr. Martin made his best decision based on what he knew at the time; however wrong the decision might have been, we must allow the occasional lapse in judgement that others make, Emma!"

Emma considered Mr. Knightley's words, knowing that he was right, but not ready to let go of her disagreeable opinion against the simpleton Mr. Martin!

"But, Mr. Knightley," returning to the more important subject at hand, Emma asked, "how would you prove that Mr. Hackman was the thief?"

"Humph," stroking his chin, Mr. Knightley reflected, "that is the very task! The key to solve this puzzle lies in the _key_ to the lock of the farm house..."

"Then, you must prove that Mr. Hackman still has, or at least _had_ possession of the key even after his employment was terminated at Abbey Mill Farm."

Clever Emma went into contemplativeness for a short moment; she murmured, _"__Mr. __Hackman must have turned in the key when __his employment at the farm ended__... but if he made a duplicate of the key..__.__."_ She suddenly blurted out, "Have you been to the locksmith, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley smiled in admiration – amused at Emma's relentlessness in the subject, and amazed by her sense and intricate thoughts even at such young age. "Good thinking, Emma! I have indeed been to the locksmith, but Mr. Shrub said that Hackman had never brought any key to his shop for a duplicate."

"Humph..." Emma knitted her brows. "What about Mrs. Hackman, do you think speaking with her would help?" she asked.

"I have serious doubt that Mrs. Hackman would know anything of it, even if she does, it is unlikely that she would willingly betray her husband."

Emma kept thinking – a sudden idea lit up her face!

She lifted a knowing eyebrow at the gentleman, "You know, Mr. Knightley," he looked into her eyes quizzically, "_whom_ do you go to when you wish to know what happen to _anyone_ or _anything_ in Highbury?" asked Emma with a mischievous grin.

In a split second, their twinkling eyes locked - all eyes dancing!

In perfect unison, Mr. Knightley and Emma cried out, "_Miss Bates_!"

* * *

**A/N:** As always, thank you for reading! :-)


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

* * *

"Oh, Miss Woodhouse, Miss Taylor, it is the most pleasant surprise to have you visit Mother and me today! Mrs. Perry and her children had just been calling not but an hour ago, and were so good to sit for more than half-an-hour with us. The Perry children have grown so much since the last time I saw them! It was so kind of them to have each taken a piece of cake and so obliging to say they liked it very much; and to say that Mr. Perry found cake disagreeable with children is preposterous! – Is not it, Mother? – Would you do us the favour to eat a piece too?"

The apartment of Mrs. and Miss Bates might be very moderate in size, nevertheless, the abundant gratitude and cheerfulness bestowed upon their visitors could not be rivalled by the air of any magnificent houses or manors in all of Highbury. Without as little as a 'yes' from her guests, Miss Bates was already bustling herself serving Miss Woodhouse and Miss Taylor each a scrumptious looking piece of sweet-cake and some freshly brewed English tea.

When Mr. Knightley parted Hartfield for his meeting with William Larkins at Donwell, the fanciful Emma had secretly commissioned herself to the task of finding out, as much as she could, Mr. Hackman's hands in the Abbey Mill Farm thefts. Though a task she felt perfectly suit to perform, the only disagreeableness of such task lied in the fact that it required the young mistress's descending to Mrs. and Miss Bates' humble dwelling. The fourteen-year-old had never a scruple against the two very good ladies, in fact, it was Emma's own idea to form a card-party with the Bates ladies, Mrs. Goddard, and her papa at Hartfield to add to Mr. Woodhouse's scanty pleasure – ever since Isabella's removal to London, in order to save her papa from sinking too low in spirit, there was seldom more than two nights went by without the little card-party at the elegant estate. However, being somewhat of a spoiled child, when everyone else commended, day-in and day-out, the unsurpassable happy-nature of Miss Bates, how endearing, rather than tiresome, her constant chattering was, and how blessed she was when the Almighty sank the Bates' station only to raise her the finest and most accomplished niece, who, though penniless, was superior in brains and beauty - all of which had struck a rebellious chord in the golden child of this Highbury town.

Though herself an exceedingly handsome and clever girl, Emma had not the vanity for her brains or her beauty. Nevertheless, while everyone around, since she could toddle and gibber, expected that Miss Emma and Miss Fairfax, being the same in age, should form the most beautiful friendship, Fate – or rather the differences in their natures – could not have set the two girls farther apart. And when one girl excelled in every achievement a female should wish to accomplish, whereas the other mostly in liveliness and mischief, the later naturally paled in comparison to the former; and what's more, when one had earned the sympathies of the world for being an orphan and penniless, the other, being a rich and inevitably spoiled girl, must be blamed for not fulfilling her duties as the first-in-consequence in society to befriend the poor Miss Fairfax!

In the heart of her heart, young Emma knew well of her deficiency in paying the respects due to the very good Miss Bates, but her headstrong nature had too often prevented her to follow her conscience. If the world had told her to go east, Emma Woodhouse would heed west as she pleased. And if those around her and their expectations would leave the wilful youth alone, Emma had little doubt that she would find Jane Fairfax a very agreeable creature, and her chatterbox aunt would have far more to recommend her and not be thought of so silly after all!

It was Friday, and it was Emma's comfort assurance that she was safe from Jane Fairfax's letters when she set foot in the Bates' apartment – for Jane Fairfax's letters were generally received on Tuesdays, and read to the whole of Highbury, including her papa, thrice by Wednesdays – little wonder that the fourteen-year-old almost choked on her sweet-cake when she saw Miss Bates fishing a letter out of the pocket of her dress.

"_Ah_... you have a letter from... _Miss Fairfax_?" Emma asked, with suppressed agony in her eyes.

"I knew it!' Miss Bates rejoiced, "That you, dear Miss Woodhouse, should know that we have received an unexpected letter from Jane this morning! Miss Woodhouse, you and dear Jane make such pretty friends, a hummingbird must have told you that we have a new letter from Jane and brought you to our house this afternoon!"

"So... it is _true_... that... you have heard from Miss Fairfax today... how _unusual_... on a... _Friday_! I... I hope Miss Fairfax is well?"

"You are so kind, Miss Woodhouse, always asking about Jane! Jane is very well indeed – Let me read the letter to you – Oh, no! You are not imposing, not in the least – I shall read it to you – the whole of it! – No, no, it is no trouble at all! – Here, here... here's what Jane says... it was near the end of her first week in Ireland with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell and Miss Campbell. Jane is in Ireland visiting the Dixons, who, of course as you know, Miss Woodhouse, Miss Taylor, has a long time family connection with the Campbells. Jane says that the young Mr. Dixon was a great favourite of Colonel Campbell, and his father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon had invited the Campbells to Ireland to spend a fortnight at their summer mansion – and of course, the Dixon insisted the Campbells on bringing Jane along – was not it so very kind of them, Miss Woodhouse, Miss Taylor?"

The young Hartfield Mistress was obliged to nod and smile warmly. To show how amiable she was, Emma even asked, "Is Miss Fairfax having a pleasant visit in Ireland?"

"Why, of course, the most pleasant visit indeed – except that, Jane says, there was an incident on their way to Ireland..."

"An _incident_?" Emma perked.

"Oh, yes, Miss Woodhouse, it was the oddest thing, Jane says, that she had ever seen in her life – while on board one of the Holyhead Packets sailing to Ireland, in the late of a heavy gale of wind, two four-wheel carriages on the Packet were washed off her decks – _washed_ _off_ _her decks_! Miss Woodhouse! _T__wo carriages_! – Jane says that in one of which a lady had unfortunately deposited not only a casket of diamonds of considerable a value, but also the deeds of her husband family's estate, which they had gone over to Ireland for the express purpose of seeing duly executed. Jane says that the lady, her gentleman husband and their nephew were sitting in the carriage not many minutes before it was swept overboard!"

Jane Fairfax's letters seldom roused Emma's interest, but this particular piece of news had surely excited the youth.

"How _lucky_ Miss Fairfax was!" Emma's hazel eyes beamed, "How _exciting_ it must have been to witness not one, but _two_ carriages swept overboard in front of her eyes! And to think of the family, arriving in a foreign land with all their trunks and belongings swimming in the sea – only if they were casted away on an uninhabited tropical island much like Robinson Crusoe was, would not it be the most _amazing_, most _splendid_ adventure?"

For the next moments, the fanciful fourteen-year-old was swept away by the storm of her own imagination – _she was_ _stranded in__ a deserted island, __crowning herself__ th__e queen of the __domain,__ twigs and palm leaves had kept her warm, coconut and honey nourished her body. She__ befriend__ed all the island's wild creatures,__ living in ha__rmony with them on the best of terms, __they allied to__gether to battle __the __ugliest of ugly__ pirates, who threatened to overtake her majesty's __magical throne__. __She was captured! But by__ the magnificent power of her queen's wits and the undying devotion of her beloved creature friends__ she escaped! And now must find her way back to the pirate ship to free her enslaved gorilla-friends..._

But the sound of Miss Bates' teaspoon clattering the floor had shattered the pirate ship, as well as her fancy, and swept Emma back to Miss Bates' apartment at once.

"Goodness me! I must be turning clumsier by the hour, this is the second time I dropped my teaspoon today! Did I give you a fright, Miss Woodhouse? – I am sorry for it – What were we speaking of? – Oh yes – what a clever young lady you are, Miss Woodhouse! I would have never made a connection between Robinson Crusoe and Jane's letter! – Would you like to be stranded in an island, Miss Woodhouse? – Yes! You have such an adventurous spirit, my dear Miss Woodhouse! I would not wish to be Mr. Crusoe, you know. I do not own much, and would not have known what to do if my belongings were swept overboard in front of my own eyes! But of course, I am certain to meet some kind souls on any island, for you know, there are always a great many kind souls everywhere one goes – and Mother shall always be with me, will not you Mother? – Yes, yes, you will need your spectacles, Mother! Let us not forget my cap - do you think Mrs. Cole would like to be stranded in the island with us, Mother? And we shall welcome Mrs. Goddard to come along – Oh! Ain't I silly, Miss Woodhouse, Miss Taylor? Mother used to call me the silliest of silly geese..."

It was too great of a temptation for Emma to resist – her eyes sparkled remarkably. _"Hum... silliest of silly geese_, _Miss Bates_..._"_ the smirk on Emma's mischievous face betrayed what was on her mind, "Miss Bates, you are _indeed __the__ si_..."

"_Ahem_!" Miss Taylor cleared her throat suddenly and loudly (a very unladylike and un-Miss Taylor-like conduct, Emma thought!) interrupting her charge.

The smirk on the youth's face did not fade, Emma resumed, "As I was saying, Miss Bates you are _indeed the sil..._"

"_Ahem - Emma_!" Miss Taylor called out abruptly, and gave Emma a beckoning look at the same time.

Emma understood her governess; half-obediently she tucked away her smirk, and put on a sweet smile, "Silliest of silly geese! Miss Bates you are _indeed _the _most_ fortunate daughter to have such a doting mother. What an affectionate way to call one's own child! It must signify how much Mrs. Bates adored you as a child, and I dare say you are _still _the _silliest_ goose in Mrs. Bates affectionate heart!"

The good lady blushed becomingly and exchanged affectionate smiles with her kind mother; she then turned to her young guest and said, "Oh! Thank you for your kind words, Miss Woodhouse! It is very true that Mother still dots on me, is not it Mother?"

Miss Taylor breathed a silent sigh of relief when this particular exchange had finally come to past!

"With their carriage swept overboard," returning to their previous conversation, Emma spoke with great interest, "I wonder what they did when they were ashore. Did Miss Fairfax say what happened to the lady and her family?"

"Yes, yes... here's what Jane says – Mr. Dixon was so very obliging as to host the family for several days until arrangement for the family to procure what they needed to carry on their journey, and for a post-chaise to bring the family to where they intended to go. Jane says that during those several days, Mr. Dixon and the young gentleman, the nephew of the lady that is, had formed the warmest of friendships – Is not Mr. Dixon the kindest man, Miss Woodhouse, Miss Taylor? Such a gracious young man, insisting on hosting a family that he barely knew and then formed a warm friendship with the young gentleman! Oh... and here's what Jane says about the young gentleman – he was three years her senior, he, his aunt and uncle were from Enscombe, while his aunt seemed a very severe lady of quality, and the uncle was quite a reserved man, the young gentleman himself was very amiable and possessed a happy deposition... Oh! And Jane says that he and Mr. Dixon took so much liking of each other that Mr. Dixon had promised to visit the young gentleman in Enscombe, whereas the young gentleman had agreed to join the Campbells and Mr. Dixon in their annual visit to Weymouth in October!"

Having never set foot outside of Highbury, all this talk of sailing across the sea to Ireland, paying a visit to Enscombe, or dashing off to Weymouth in October had made the young Hartfield Mistress quite envious of the young men, the Campbells, and even Jane Fairfax. She had never sailed on a Holyhead Packet, never gone near a watering place, and to say the least, shall never witness the exciting scene of two carriages swept overboard by heavy wind! Her fanciful mind was about to wander off to escape the chattering of the good Miss Bates, fortunately, this time her imagination did not carry her too far; and with even greater fortune, once Jane Fairfax's letter was thoroughly read over twice, Mrs. Cole had succeeded Jane Fairfax almost immediately.

"Miss Woodhouse, Miss Taylor, have you heard what happened to Mrs. Cole yesterday?"

Emma and Miss Taylor both shook their heads perplexedly.

"It was the most dreadful thing!" Miss Bates exclaimed. "A stripling was firing off a squib in the street when Mrs. Cole was walking by. Mrs. Cole's gown had caught the dreadful squib, and was set on fire instantly!"

Miss Taylor gasped, "Was Mrs. Cole hurt?"

"Oh, Miss Taylor, it was so kind of you to ask! Mrs. Cole narrowly escaped from being materially injured – part of her hair was set on fire as well, fortunately her maid plucked her reticule out of her hand, hit it against Mrs. Cole's head and put the fire out. And Mr. Nutt (a street vendor) threw a bucket of water at her in time to put out the fire on her gown before it burned to her skin!"

The comical image of a char-coated woman with smoke coming out of her ears, utterly drenched, dripping wet in her own puddle, being violently whacked by her maid on the head making a cake of her hair almost had Emma burst out laughing! Luckily the fanciful youth had schooled herself well – never laugh when she ought not to! She pulled a long and sympathetic face just in time to say, "I am so very, very sorry for Mrs. Cole, my heart goes out to her gown and her hair!"

"Speaking of Mrs. Cole," it did not take long for her long face to shorten, "is Mrs. Hackman still working at the Coles?" asked Emma, most naturally.

"Why, yes! Mrs. Hackman was the maid who put out the fire in Mrs. Cole's hair with her reticule!"

"How fortunate Mrs. Cole is to have such a quick-thinking maid!" Emma smiled.

"Yes, Mrs. Hackman is the best maid Mrs. Cole said she's ever had! She is hard working, always does as she is bidden, never says a word when she is not asked, and she is so good with the Cole's girls too!"

"Ah... has Mrs. Hackman ever talked of Mr. Hackman?" Emma began the quest for her mission.

"Oh, I see – you must mean Mr. Hackman's drinking, Miss Woodhouse? Mrs. Cole is such a kind-hearted mistress; she had often asked Mrs. Hackman after her husband. She's very willing to lend help if the family requires it, but Mrs. Hackman has declined offers of any sort – she told Mrs. Cole that her family was still managing with her income and her son's apprenticeship, but she was very grateful for Mrs. Cole's kindness!"

"Did she ever speak of Mr. Hackman's gambling debt?" asked Emma.

Miss Bates gasped, eyes widened! "So – you have heard, Miss Woodhouse! How did you know, Miss Woodhouse? It was not so long ago that I heard it from Mr. Cutts, the butcher, and I was utterly shocked! Hackman was such a good man, he and I are the same age, and we used to play in the churchyard after Father's sermon on Sundays when we were children. How I wish he did not become a Borachio... and now (the good lady sighed) a Blackleg! Miss Woodhouse, you must have heard that he met a Captain Sharp and lost his hedge in one night, and has been under hatches ever since!"

Emma stared at Miss Bates with big round eyes and wondered – _could the good vicar's daughter be speaking in tongue_? But she needed to know what happened to Mr. Hackman, so she asked, "Who is _Borachio_... and... _Blackleg_... who is _Captain_ _Sharp__... _and what is a _hedge_, Miss Bates?"

Miss Bates' face reddened; she lifted a hand over her mirth, "Oh, I should have held my tongue, Miss Woodhouse! I beg your pardon for using these vulgar words, but these words amused me so much! I asked Mr. Cutts the same questions when he spoke to me about Hackman in the same way. – Now, here's how Mr. Cutts had explained to me: A Borachio is a drunkard, Blackleg is a gambler, Captain Sharp is a cheating bully, and hedge is his bet. Do they make sense now?"

The fourteen-year-old was immensely amused! Emma could not wait to say these words in front of Mr. Knightley, but she soon gathered herself and continued to pursue her mission. "Then have you heard anything regarding... regarding how Mr. Hackman is paying off his debt to Captain Sharp?"

"Mrs. Cole wondered the same! You see, Miss Woodhouse, once I heard of Hackman's gambling hatches, I decided to confide in Mrs. Cole, to see if any relief could be given to Mrs. Hackman. So Mrs. Cole asked Mrs. Hackman, but Mrs. Hackman said that they were managing with her income and their son's apprenticeship – oh, have I already told you this – yes, yes, I have – so Mrs. Hackman declined Mrs. Cole's offer to help!"

Even after another quarter of an hour of exchanges, Miss Bates had not imparted any intelligence that Emma had not heard already, or that would lead to convicting Mr. Hackman to the Abbey Mill Farm thefts. Emma also asked if Miss Bates had heard of Mrs. Hackman mentioning an unusual key – without revealing her intention, Emma had to leave Miss Bates guessing what particular key Mrs. Hackman might have knowledge of.

The good lady spent the next quarter of an hour naming a vast variety of keys, "...ah... Miss Woodhouse, could you mean the key to Mrs. Cole's attic? – No! You must mean the key to her jewellery-case; Mr. Cole has given quite a collection of bracelets and rings to his wife during their town days – Ah no! Could it be the key to Mr. Cole's writing desk? Mrs. Cole said the drawers held many important documents of her husband's business in town! - Huh, no! Must be the key to the pantry? – What about the key to the girl's schoolroom? – Ah... the key to Mr. Cole's wine cellar? – No... Hah! I know, I know! You must be speaking of the key to their brand new water-closet! Oh! It was so pretty and shiny, Miss Woodhouse... and (the good lady lowered her voice in glee) I had the honour of trying it once; it's a magical piece of work! – NO! Not _that_ key... humph..." Miss Bates was stumped!

As her mission unaccomplished, Emma was immensely disappointed! She bade her hostesses a good day and left the Bates' modest apartment with Miss Taylor.

* * *

They had walked down the long narrow stairs of the Bates' apartment, and exited the establishment, when Emma suddenly noticed, "My shawl, Miss Taylor! I must have left it on the chair by the window... let me go back and fetch it."

Emma left Miss Taylor and hurried back inside the building. She was half-way up the staircase when Miss Bates emerged on top of the stairs.

"Dear Miss Woodhouse, you must be looking for your shawl!" Miss Bates greeted Emma again cheerfully, descending the stairs meeting her visitor and handing her her shawl.

"Thank you, Miss Bates!" Emma saw that Miss Bates was properly attired for a walk under the sun, she asked brightly, "Going on an outing, Miss Bates?"

"Oh, yes! The heel of my boot is coming apart again; I am taking it to Mr. Gummery for a mend. I dare say now that he has Jeffrey as his apprentice, my boot should be mended in half the time as before. Do you know Jeffrey, Miss Woodhouse? – Oh, why, Jeffrey is Mrs. Hackman's son! What a nice young man, yours and Jane's age. I am so glad that things seem looking up for the boy – you know, it was not pleasant for him to lose his apprenticeship at Mr. Shrub's..."

"_Mr. Shrub_?" Emma burst out abruptly; her heart almost skipped a beat! "You mean Mr. Shrub, the _locksmith_?"

"Why, yes! Over a trifling reason too – When was it? – Ah... only about four months ago! Jeffrey is a good stripling, you know, Mr. Shrub had praised him often, thought the boy had a good garret on his shoulders – Oh! Pardon me, Miss Woodhouse, I can't seem to get Mr. Cutts words out of my head – Yes, yes, Mr. Shrub thought that the boy had a good head on his shoulders and willingness to learn, but couple times Jeffrey had forgotten to return the tools he took home and Mr. Shrub disliked it excessively and eventually let him go!"

"Did you say _four_ months ago – that Mr. Hackman's son was still working for _Mr. Shrub_?" Emma asked, pinning down her excitement.

"Was it three... or four... Did I say four? – Yes! Then it must be four!"

"Thank you _so_ very much, Miss Bates, I am _so_ glad I came to see you today!"

The young lady was overcome with joy! Emma leaped up a step and threw her arms round Miss Bates, squeezing a reddened face and several giggles out of the good lady. Once again, she bade Miss Bates a very good-day and flew out of the establishment.

* * *

**A/N: **Really should have done this long time ago – _Thank you_ _so much_ for your reviews! I keep reminding myself that it is for my own amusement that I write, with or without reviews I am enjoying myself immensely. But every comment I receive encourages me, and knowing that someone is enjoying my effort adds to my joy of working on the story! :-)

I know this was a long chapter for only the last part leading to key of the thefts, but I had a lot of fun writing it, hope you enjoyed reading it! Thank you so much for reading, as always! :D


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

* * *

Emma was in such frenzy that she practically ran over poor Harry when the Donwell footman held the heavy oak door for her to come into the main entrance hall. After a hastened, but sincere, apology and an inquiry of where Mr. Knightley was at the present, Emma picked up her skirt and ran through the long hallway, with Wobble barking and skipping besides her.

"_Mr. Knightley_... _Mr. Knightley_!" she called out as she and Wobble turned the corner approaching the Donwell Library. But the young lady and her puppy came to an abrupt halt upon discovering that the Donwell bailiff was standing in the room with his master.

Emma instantly picked up Wobble and said, a little out-of-breath, "Oh! I beg your pardon... Mr. Larkins, Mr. Knightley... ah... Wobble and I shall wait in the hallway!"

Mr. Knightley's mouth quirked – his young friend had learnt her lesson well when it came to William Larkins' fear of canines. Ever since that unfortunate incident, Emma took pain to steer her spaniel as far away from William Larkins as she possibly could whenever the bailiff was at Donwell. It was obvious that Emma had something urgent to speak with him, yet, she still put forth her diligence to keep her puppy away and was willing to wait – he thought her conduct very well done indeed!

"Sir," after Emma and Wobble left the library threshold, William Larkins spoke to Mr. Knightley, "it appears that Miss Woodhouse has some urgent matter to consult you, should I go speak with Joseph concerning the cattle fair while you meet with Miss Woodhouse?"

"Thank you, Larkins. It is kind of you to offer. We shall resume our discussion after your meeting with Joseph."

From the other end of the long hallway, Emma saw that William Larkins had taken his leave; she and Wobble wasted no time to run back to the library, where Mr. Knightley awaited them smilingly.

"Thank you for keeping Wobble away from Larkins, Emma!" Mr. Knightley said sincerely.

Eyes casting down, Emma smiled ruefully in return, for she knew his gratitude was undeserved – images of that dreadful afternoon where she taunted the poor bailiff with her gentle puppy were still fresh in her mind.

She shook the dreadful images off her mind, looked up at the gentleman and began blurting out, "It is true, Mr. Knightley, it is true! What we thought _is_ true – it was not bad enough that Mr. Hackman was a Borachio, but against his family's wishes, he has become a Blackleg, and one night, he met the brutal Captain Sharp..." Emma's mind suddenly wandered off and wondered if Captain Sharp looked anything like Captain Avery or Captain Kidd, but she quickly gathered herself and continued, "That Captain Sharp stripped him of all his hedges, and I dare say threatened to cut off his hands if he would not pay his debt, and Mr. Hackman has been under the hatches ever since! Of course his long-suffering wife would not utter a word to a soul, poor Mrs. Hackman could only express her mortification by whacking Mrs. Cole violently on the head making a cake of her hair, but who could blame her for having a husband in such a bad scrape! And he even dragged his son into the sorry plight, Mr. Knightley, causing him to be casted off from Mr. Shrub's shop and lose his hard-earned apprenticeship!"

Midway through Emma's colourful speech, Mr. Knightley burst into chuckles!

Once she finished, "Emma!" he gave her long curls a playful tug, looking into her eyes amusingly, Mr. Knightley asked, "Have you been speaking with Mr. Cutts?"

"No!" Emma knitted her brows, looking at Mr. Knightley feeling surprised that he did not pay heed to the valuable intelligence she proffered.

"Where did you learn these words, dear Emma – _Borachio_, _Blackleg_," Mr. Knightley cocked an amused-brow, "and... _Captain_ _Sharp_?"

"Miss Bates taught me those words..." Emma replied.

"I am glad you called on Mrs. and Miss Bates! Are they well?" asked Mr. Knightley, still amused.

"Yes, Mrs. Bates and Miss Bates were very well... but... Mr. Knightley I am not here to tell you about Mrs. and Miss Bates!" the young lady protested.

"Of course," Mr. Knightley said, smiling down at his young friend, "you came because you have found out that Hackman was indeed gambling and lost all his money and accumulated a sizable debt!"

"_So_..." gaping at Mr. Knightley, Emma astounded, "You _know_ those _words_?"

"Yes, let's just say that being a magistrate I have come across languages that a _respect__able_ young lady should _refrain_ from using!"

His teasing smile had put her to a crimson blush. Emma muttered, "But they are so amusing_..._."

"To a genteel green girl, I can see why they are amusing, but be mindful not to let them rolling out of your tongue like the way you just did, they will give others a very wrong notion of who you are, Emma!" Mr. Knightley beckoned gently.

A mortified expression hung over Emma's face; she looked down at her hands and said quietly, "I shall not say them to anyone..." but she suddenly looked up with a big rascally grin, "Except _you_!"

Rather than attempting to argue some sense into Emma's head, Mr. Knightley simply shook his head at the nonsensical girl, and burst out laughing!

A moment later, after he had collected his composure, he asked Emma, "Did you say that Hackman's son was apprenticing at Mr. Shrub's?"

"Yes, his son was still the locksmith's apprentice four months ago. But he was let go because he had taken home Mr. Shrub's tools and not brought them back couple times!"

"Humph!" Mr. Knightley considered the intelligence, "Hackman could have had his son make a duplicate of the key to the Martin's farm house..."

"Before his employment ended at Abbey Mill Farm!" Emma interjected. The young lady began pacing the Donwell library, knitting together the threads of an intriguing crime story, "He must have planned the first theft ahead of time, coaxed his son to make a duplicate of the farm house key before he acted upon it. And knowing that the Martins would surely replace the tools after they were stolen, he kept the key and waited for the right moment to go back... only then he found out that the Martins kept money at the farm house, it became even more tempting to strike the second time should he require more money to pay his debt!"

"So, now we must find out from his son that he had indeed made a duplicate of the key for his father," Mr. Knightley concluded.

"Will you speak with Mr. Hackman's son Jeffrey, Mr. Knightley?"

"Yes, I shall pay him a visit at the cobbler's after my meeting with William Larkins."

* * *

Mr. Knightley did as he said – he went to speak with Jeffrey that afternoon. The young man admitted that he had made duplicate of two keys for his father during his six mouths apprenticeship at the locksmith's. One of the two keys copied was the key to their own cottage, as the father had lost his one night thus requested his son to make a duplicate from his mother's. But as to the other key, Hackman did not disclose the origin of the key or the purpose for the duplicate, but bade his son to be discreet of the task. The good-natured son obeyed his father's wishes and dutifully produced the duplicate at Mr. Shrub's shop while the locksmith master was out of his establishment one afternoon.

When Mr. Knightley asked how Jeffrey lost his apprenticeship with Mr. Shrub, the young man responded with a blush, admitting that it was his own carelessness that had turned the locksmith against him. The apprentice owned that his forgetfulness had often gotten him in trouble, it was his own faults that he neglected to return his master's tool the first time, Mr. Shrub was not pleased, and gave him a harsh admonishment, so it was expected that he should be let go when he repeated the offense the second time. But the young man had vowed to be more careful now that he was under the guidance of Mr. Gummery, the cobbler, Mr. Knightley found Jeffrey very sincere with his resolve and gave the young man much deserved encouragements commanding him that it was well done of him to focus on improving himself rather than dwelling on his past mistakes. He bade the grateful young man good-day and went on his way to pay the young man's father a visit.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon, an hour, as Mr. Knightley conjectured, almost certainly would allow him to find the object of his visit home. For those who were into gaming, nightfall was when they ventured to the gaming houses; and for those who indulged in drinking, it was commonplace that they would be sleeping while others were labouring under the sun.

Bearing in mind that it might take several tries to rouse the occupant inside, Mr. Knightley knocked firmly on the door of the Hackman's humble cottage, but to his surprise, his knock was answered before he lifted his hand for the knocker the second time.

A thin haggard male of middling age, with dishevelled grey hair sprawling above the brows of his hollow-eyes on a sad grim face, opened the door. Mr. Knightley had not seen Hackman for almost a year. The former Donwell spademan and hedger was once a robust farm-servant, physical strength and clarity of mind were his proud marks; he had served the Donwell home-farm since his youth and had acquired a reputation as top-rated in his vocation. Mr. Knightley sighed heavily in his heart – the sight in front of him was utterly a different person, yet, an old friend!

"_Mr. Knightley_!" exclaimed Hackman, taken aback by the sight of his former master.

"How are you, Hackman?" asked Mr. Knightley, and he sincerely meant what he asked.

Hackman stood there staring at Mr. Knightley for he knew not the answer to his question.

"May I come in?" Mr. Knightley took off his hat and bade.

"Oh... yes... do come in... sir!" Hackman's coarse voice replied.

The two men walked inside the small house, and Hackman, hard at work in keeping his countenance, invited Mr. Knightley to take a seat on a wooden chair.

"Ah... I think Mary had said that we were out of tea... would you care for some... water?" Hackman said embarrassingly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"No thank you, Hackman," said Mr. Knightley politely. "Did I wake you up just now? I am sorry if I did."

Old Hackman smiled ruefully, shaking his head gravely, "No... I was not sleeping..." He heaved a long sigh, "I...could not sleep... have not been able to sleep for a long time..."

"How _are_ you, Hackman?" Mr. Knightley asked again, sincerely wishing to know the answer.

Hackman regarded the question long and hard, his sad eyes staring emptily out the small window. Mr. Knightley watched the man's chest rising and falling heavily for a moment before Hackman looked up with clouded eyes and muttered, "Not... not so well, Mr. Knightley!"

"Hackman," Mr. Knightley began very kindly, "are you still drinking?"

The weary man ran his fingers through his disorderly hair, he replied, "I have been trying to stop, Mr. Knightley... I have been trying for months..."

"What about the gambling, Hackman? Have you tried to stop that too?" asked Mr. Knightley poignantly, not in a tone of condemnation, but a tone of genuine concern.

"How did you know about my gambling, Mr. Knightley?" the former Donwell spadesman and hedger asked with great shame.

"These things have a way to find their way to one's ears, Hackman," replied Mr. Knightley.

The dreary man looked guiltily at his former master, he nodded.

"Have you been met with any success?"

"I... at... at times I thought I have gotten rid of the habits... but... other times I was dragged into the dread again!"

"But do you have a desire to stop, Hackman – both the drinking and the gambling?" Mr. Knightley asked.

"Believe me, Mr. Knightley!" Old Hackman said earnestly. "I have meant to stop a thousand times!" A look of aghast came over the grim man's face, "Look at me, Mr. Knightley... _L__ook_ at me... I cannot even recognize myself anymore! I have become such a burden to my family... I wish I had never been born!"

"Hackman," said Mr. Knightley, "do you know the reason for my coming today?"

Old Hackman shook his head, looking at Mr. Knightley beseechingly.

"I went to see Jeffrey before I came," revealed Mr. Knightley.

"Jeffrey!" Old Hackman suddenly stood on his feet, "Why... why did you need to see Jeffrey?" he asked anxiously.

"I needed to know if he had made a duplicate of a certain key for you, Hackman," Mr. Knightley replied steadily.

The already pale Hackman turned white. He cried out fervently, "_What_ did he tell you?"

"He told me that he had made a duplicate of a key at your request, but he did not know the origin of the key."

"Whatever you are looking for, Mr. Knightley, Jeffrey does not know anything!" Hackman said desperately. He moved next to Mr. Knightley and placed both his hands on Mr. Knightley's forearm as he pleaded, "My son only did what I asked him to do... he did not know where the key came from... he is innocent, Mr. Knightley, Jeffrey is innocent!"

"I know Jeffrey is innocent, Hackman. But would you tell me where the key had come from?" asked Mr. Knightley, discerningly.

Old Hackman stared at Mr. Knightley for a long moment as the look of remorse overtook his entire face. Sinking back to the wooden chair with an empty gaze, he finally uttered, "So... you... have found out, Mr. Knightley!"

"Why did you do it, Hackman?" Mr. Knightley asked.

It took the distraught man sometime to gather himself to speak again. "I had no choice Mr. Knightley. After I left the Donwell home-farm, no one was willing to give me work. I was lucky that Robert Martin was willing to take me in as a short-term labourer! I had the greatest desire to stay sober and seek a new start, Mr. Knightley, but my will was too weak! I was so desperate that I thought I would try to turn my luck around at the gaming house! Luck was on my side at first and that was why I kept going back, and I thought things were going to change... my life was going to get better! But... only that it did not...

"I had lost every shilling I won; then I borrowed from the money-lender and got myself into the worst scrape of my life! The money-lender demanded the payment on the interest... and... I had nothing to pay him... Mary had already suffered so much because of me... I had not the heart to ask her to borrow from the Coles... so... I... I had no choice but to steal!"

"Did that happen when you were working at Abbey Mill Farm?"

Hackman nodded shamefully, looking down at his feet as he spoke, "Mr. Knightley... the Martins had just replaced their tools not long before... and I had access to them... so..."

"What about the second time, Hackman? Did you plan the second theft before you committed the first?"

"No, Mr. Knightley," Hackman looked up hurriedly, "I never planned to go back!"

"But why did you make a duplicate of the Martin's farm house key?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"I... I..." Hackman heaved, searching within himself, "I wanted it... because..."

"Was it because in case you needed to go back and steal again?" Mr. Knightley questioned poignantly.

"No, Mr. Knightley... please believe me," Hackman implored, "I never planned to steal the second time! I thought the key was my lucky charm, for it was going to give me the money to pay off the interest, so I thought it would bring me luck. That was the only reason why I asked Jeffrey to copy the key for me!"

"Then how did you end up going back to steal again?" Mr. Knightley pressed.

"After I paid off the interest," Hackman continued guiltily, "I thought my luck had turned, so I went back to the gaming house with what was left... and my luck did turn for a while..."

"But it did not stay that way, did it?" Mr. Knightley asked, knowing too well what the answer would be.

"No..." Hackman answered quietly, he looked down shaking his head with enormous regrets, "And I stumbled into my scrape even deeper!"

"And that was when you went back to Abbey Mill Farm the second time?"

"I did not want to, please believe me, Mr. Knightley... but I had no choice! I tried to look for work, but no one would hire me. Jeffrey had lost his apprenticeship at the Shrub's, and I could not bear to tell Mary the truth... I knew the Martins hid money in the farm house... and since I still had the key to the place... I went back..."

"But why did you drag an innocent man into the whole ordeal, Hackman?" Mr. Knightley reproached severely. Raising his voice firmly, he demanded, "Do you know that you had almost ruined Anderton and his family?"

"I am very sorry, Mr. Knightley! I am! I have no excuse for my wrong doing... at the time all I could think of was to rid the money-lender off my back... I had not thought that anyone would be working there at that hour; I was taken aback when I saw Anderton there; and seeing him there shattered all my hopes of getting hired back to Abbey Mill by Robert Martin... I resented Anderton for that!"

"That was why you spread vicious rumours round town telling the farm owners that Anderton was a thief?" demanded Mr. Knightley sternly.

"Oh, Mr. Knightley, I know I was wrong! I might have been a useless drunkard and despicable gamester, but the Lord did not let my conscience go blind for very long! I have been drowning in guilt for what I did... I have not been able to sleep at night for the past three months! Many times, I had wished to come forward and give myself up... but damn the coward in me! I have not the courage to do it... your coming here today to throw me into prison... or... or to hang me... is the very punishment that I deserve!"

"But I am _not_ here to throw you into prison, Hackman!"

"Then..." looking at Mr. Knightley disbelievingly, the distraught man implored, "why... why are you here, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley took a heavy sigh, "Hackman," there was pain in his voice, "I have known you since I was in short-coats! I could still recall how you used to show me the way to hold a spade and a shovel, how to turn a switching-knife, and manipulate it between my fingers! You were a good man, an excellent farm-servant, and a man who loved his family more than his own life! I do not pretend to know what happened that had led you down this path, but I hope somewhere inside you, the old Hackman still lives!"

Hackman felt so ashamed of himself that tears began running down his miserable face.

"I came here today in search of the old friend that I once had regarded highly, he may look like a different person, but I hope his old self is still alive and has the desire to come off his dreadful path!"

"I do, Mr. Knightley, I cannot tell you how much I wish to come off this dire path, upon my word I do!"

"Then would you be willing to negotiate a settlement in order to redeem yourself?"

"So you will not... hang me... Mr. Knightley?"

"The Martins never brought forth any charges to the magistrate's office, and I am not about to send you to the gallows if I could help it. But I would not let you get off free, Hackman!" Mr. Knightley said firmly.

"No, Mr. Knightley, I dare not to think of getting off free! As a repentant, I am willing to take my punishment, no matter how harsh it is!"

"Would you like to work again?"

"Oh, Mr. Knightley, I would give anything to work again, only if someone is willing to hire this wretched man!"

"How much do you owe the money-lender?"

"Ah..." Hackman looked down shame-facedly, "Principal and interest... forty pounds!" he muttered.

"If you are indeed willing to repent, I shall ask William Larkins to hire you as a general labourer at the Donwell home-farm. You shall work under the superintendence of Mr. Anderton, who is now the spadesman and hedger for our farm. Major undertaking to improve our drainage shall require more than his set of hands, you shall assist him in every way he bids you.

"Donwell shall advance you the forty pounds to pay off the money-lender. You shall receive the usual wages as a general farm-labourer, but half of it shall go to pay back the tools and money you stole from Abbey Mill Farm in instalments. Once the Martins are paid off, half your wages shall go to pay down the advance you receive from Donwell."

Old Hackman was in uttered dismay! He was beyond grateful for being given a second chance. He would have agreed to have all his wages withheld until he could pay back the Martins and Mr. Knightley every farthing of it. To have only half of his wages withheld was too good to be true!

"But before the commencement of your employment," Mr. Knightley added firmly, "you shall make your complete confession to Robert Martin, you must apologize to Mr. Anderton in person, and clear his name by informing all whom you had conveyed the vicious rumours that you had told them a lie.

"And there is one more condition – your lips shall _not_ touch a drop of alcohol and your feet shall _not_ go within a hundred yards of any gaming houses for as long as you are under the employment of the Donwell home-farm. Hackman, will you give me your honour to abide by all of these conditions?"

The infinite gratitude of the tearful man had moved him to fall on his knees in front of the Donwell Master, he would have worshiped and kissed the ground that the gracious master treaded if he could, but Mr. Knightley instantly reached out his hands to stop him and helped him to his feet, and said, "You only need to give me your honour, Hackman. That is _all_ I am asking of you!"

"Mr. Knightley, I have lost all my honour when I became a thief! But upon my _life_ I shall abide by all of the conditions you laid out, and for as long as I live, I shall _not_ let you down!"

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you so much for your reviews on the last chapter (and Thank You **_reading friend_** and _**bex**_ for letting me know that you're enjoying the story!) Thank you, **_slytherinsal_**, for telling me that Hackman's crime could have been punishable by hanging! I hope Mr. Knightley's treatment to Hackman wasn't too big of a surprise to you. I have always pictured our beloved hero Mr. Knightley a kind and merciful man who believed in granting second chances! :)

This concludes the plot around the Abbey Mill Farm thefts - the main purpose of this plot was to plant the seeds for Emma's disapproval of Harriet's attachment to Robert Martin in the novel. Oh my goodnes, it only took how many chapters to bring out that point? Lol! Thank you so much again for reading! :) The story focus will shift in the next chapter.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

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It was the day after his interview with Old Hackman, while Emma took Wobble out to the Donwell Flower Garden for the spaniel's daily walk Mr. Knightley was meeting with William Larkins at the Donwell library making arrangement for the return of the former spademan and hedger to the Donwell home-farm.

Right when their meeting had reached the end, Harry the old footman came into the library and announced, "Miss Anderton, sir."

If the Donwell Master was surprised by the announcement of the call of a Miss Anderton, the steady expression on his face did not betray it. He gestured Harry to send in the visitor.

"_Miss Anderton_?" William Larkins was the one who was taken aback by the name of the caller.

"If I am not mistaken," Mr. Knightley said, "this must be Anderton's eldest daughter."

"I beg your pardon for my curiosity, sir," such curiosity was rare from the Donwell bailiff, "why would Anderton's daughter be calling at Donwell Abbey?"

"Miss Anderton is a friend of Miss Woodhouse, perhaps she has come to see Miss Woodhouse," Mr. Knightley supplied.

"By and bye," Mr. Knightley added, "Anderton has been working at the Donwell home-farm for almost a week, is he doing well?" the master asked his bailiff.

"Exceedingly, Mr. Knightley, the fellow is one of the hardest working men I have ever seen, and his skills are superb." Praises from William Larkins were even rarer than his curiosity - Mr. Knightley was very pleased by it.

With that said, Agnes had followed the footman to the library.

Mr. Knightley stood up and walked from behind his writing desk, bowing politely at the young lady, "How do you do, Miss Anderton?"

Agnes curtsied shyly, secretly wishing her heart would stop pounding at her chest so hard, she managed to reply with a half-steadied voice, "How... how... do you do, Mr. Knightley?"

"Miss Anderton, may I present to you Mr. Larkins?" Mr. Knightley asked.

"Your servant, ma'am," William Larkins took his bow civilly.

Agnes returned the civility and said in a more confident manner, "My pleasure to meet you, Mr. Larkins, Papa speaks of you often at home!"

The bailiff's expressionless face darkened, under his breath he uttered, "_Must be of how stern a superintendent I am_!"

"No!" Agnes heard what the bailiff said and hurried, "Papa often speaks of how knowledgeable and just you are, Mr. Larkins!"

The bailiff let his hard face lightened a little – only a little – for the unaffected man loathed emotions of any sort.

"Pardon me Miss Anderton, permit me to take my leave now, good-day," said the bailiff simply. William Larkins bowed to the peasant girl, inclining his head to his master, and took his leave.

Agnes's uncertain eyes followed William Larkins exiting the library, almost as if she wished the bailiff would stay. Even after his shadow had completely disappeared, her gaze was still fixated at the library threshold.

"May I inquire the purpose of your call this afternoon, Miss Anderton?" The polite voice of Mr. Knightley broke her gaze and brought her eyes round meeting the riding boots of the Donwell Master.

"Ah... yes... Mr. Knightley..." Agnes stammered timidly.

If Emma were in the library at that very moment, she would have sworn that this was not the same Anderton girl whom she knew – Agnes's timidity in front of Mr. Knightley was entirely uncharacteristic of her usual proud facade. Air and pride that rolled out of the peasant girl's tongue so readily were completely overtaken by shyness and awkwardness.

"Is there something that I could help you with, Miss Anderton?" Mr. Knightley asked very kindly and patiently.

Agnes, who had been averting her eyes from Mr. Knightley since the moment she set foot in the library, finally gathered up her courage and slowly looked up to see his face. She still remembered vividly the crease between the gentleman's brows the very first time she saw him – she had told Emma that he despised her, and no matter how much her friend tried to persuade her that Mr. Knightley was the kindest of men, she would not be convinced. She also remembered the morning when Mr. Knightley came to her humble cottage, there was not a trace of the crease that he wore in their first meeting; all she saw was the amused sparkles in the gentleman's penetrating eyes when she accused him of suspecting her stealing from his home. And now, the same gentleman, a man of rank and stature that she had never the privilege to meet in her fifteen years of being, just as handsome as the two previous occasions when she saw him, his tall frame standing in front of her for the third time, offering her patience and kindness which she felt too ashamed to accept!

"If there is anything that I could be of your service, Miss Anderton, I shall be glad to oblige," Mr. Knightley said for the third time, still kindly and patiently.

"Mr. Knightley..." even speaking his name had made her tremble, with much exertion Agnes steadied her voice and spoke up, "I am... I am here to... to apologize!"

"_Apologize_?" the gentleman was surprised, "What for?"

"Ah... for my impudence..." the peasant girl swallowed, "of accusing you for suspecting me of stealing from your house... and also for accusing Papa of stealing from Abbey Mill Farm!"

Mr. Knightley saw the glistens in Agnes's eyes, he reckoned that it must have cost her a great deal to come to the Abbey and made her confession.

"I admire your courage for coming here today, Miss Anderton, but let me assure you that under the circumstances, the accusations that you spoke of were perfectly understandable. There is no need for an apology."

"But there _is_!" Agnes said vehemently. "It was wrong of me to presume your intention! You were kind enough to let me in your house, and not only that I was not grateful for your kindness, I had the audacity to think ill of you! And as for accusing my Papa of stealing – I am even more ashamed of myself! You came to offer my Papa a chance that no one would, but I was so insolent to think that you were coming to take him away. I am truly _sorry_!"

Agnes completed her confession all in one breath, which had the effect of throwing her into a fit of dreadful coughing.

"Are you unwell, Miss Anderton?" Mr. Knightley asked concernedly.

Agnes held up one of her hands as she coughed gesturing that she was fine, and she seemed to be better after her coughing fit subsided.

"Pardon me, Miss Anderton, I should have had tea brought in!"

When Mr. Knightley reached his hand for the bell, Agnes quickly interposed, "No, pray do not! I only wish to apologize and take my leave; I do not need tea or anything... If you would just accept my apology, I shall be on my way home a far happier person!"

The very observant Mr. Knightley knew that there was nothing he could say or do, except for accepting her apology, to set Agnes's guilt-ridden mind free.

"Very well then, Miss Anderton, your apology is accepted!" Mr. Knightley said kindly.

"Thank you, I shall take my leave now." Agnes curtsied and was turning toward the library threshold.

"_Wait_..." Mr. Knightley called out with anxiety – most unexpectedly to Agnes.

The gentleman moved to the window looking out to see Emma and Wobble strolling on the Abbey's extensive ground. He asked Agnes earnestly, "Would not you wish to see Emma?"

Agnes looked down at her hands; it took her some time to reply, very reluctantly, and disheartened, "My Papa thinks that a lowly born peasant girl like me should only be friends with my own kind, not a gentleman's daughter..." her voice grew even smaller as she went on, "he thinks ... that... the rich and the poor should not be mingled together... because the rich... would only hurt the poor!"

Mr. Knightley felt a vast disappointment, he took an inaudible sigh. He asked Agnes, "But Miss Anderton, what do _you_ think?"

Agnes remained silent, still looking down and wringing her hands.

"Do you think Emma would _ever_ hurt you, Miss Anderton?" Mr. Knightley asked searchingly.

Agnes looked up in an instant meeting his eyes, without the smallest hesitation she declared, "No! Emma has been all kindness to me and to my family, she would _never_ hurt me!"

"Miss Anderton," Mr. Knightley said, "I am aware that it is not my place to advise you against anyone's, especially your father's, wishes, but I sincerely hope that you would take what you just told me into consideration when it comes to deciding whether you would remain friends with Emma or not!"

Agnes regarded Mr. Knightley's words for a moment, she asked pensively, "And... you... do not mind Emma befriending a base-born girl?"

Mr. Knightley took a deep breath, feelingly he said, "Emma is a gentleman's daughter, no one could dispute that, and she lives a privileged life – but what comes with her privileged life may not be as perfect as one might think! Emma lives a confined life, unlike most girls her age, who have intimate friends to share their joy and sorrows, Emma only has her father and her governess. While there are an abundance of people in Highbury who adore her since she was an infant, she had never had a true friend! I have seen many who wish to befriend her, for befriending Miss Woodhouse would be befriending the first-in-consequence in the Highbury society; and have they had a _sincere_ interest in Emma, I would have tolerated their ulterior intention – but _none_ of them _do_!

"Miss Anderton, I see in you a young woman whose character and love for her family are admirable, and who would be faithful and genuine to those you call friends; I could see that if you befriended Emma, you shall treat her the same way you would treat any friends of yours whether she was a gentleman or a farmer's daughter, unlike those who only wish to take advantage of her station, and would blindly admire her or offer her flatteries that could only do her harm!"

For a moment, Mr. Knightley was lost in his own passion, speaking most unguardedly from his heart. Realizing he might have overstepped his boundary imparting his selfish wishes, the gentleman paused and checked himself.

"I beg your pardon for my frankness, Miss Anderton!" He took another deep breath and continued, but in a more calmly manner, "Emma has been my friend all her life, as you could tell, I have the most sincere interest in her well-being. As much as I wish her to have a friend who is worthy of her, the decision must be settled between you both, and _only _you both." Once this was said, Mr. Knightley bade himself to say no more.

Agnes had taken in every word that Mr. Knightley said in admiration. She remembered Emma had said that Mr. Knightley was the kindest of men, and she was right! How fortunate that Emma was to have a friend who had put his sincere interest of her well-being in the forefront of his heart! She had not thought it possible for a gentleman of rank to care so deeply for someone other than himself. Countless times her papa had told her that rich people was a selfish breed, they had not a heart even if their lives should depend upon it, their appearance might be all civility, but it would only be a matter of time when what's hidden underneath their facade would hurt those who placed their trust in them.

But clearly, when it came to Emma and Mr. Knightley, Agnes was certain, her papa could not be more mistaken! As she had confessed so unreservedly, Emma had been all kindness to her and her family, the rich girl might be too fanciful for her own good, but the goodness in her heart flowed so naturally through! It might be against her father's wish to continue to befriend a rich girl, but should not her own wishes play a role in deciding whom she could call her friend?

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley," the Anderton girl said sincerely. She curtsied to the gentleman to take her leave. And before she turned round heading for the library threshold once again, her air and pride had made a glorious comeback, with a smug grin the pale-faced girl said to the Master of Donwell Abbey, "If you do not mind, I have a friend I must go see!"

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you _so much_ for reading! :) This is a relatively short chapter, but I like how it went. I suppose you know where the next segment is heading toward...

Real life has been very hectic recently, I could hardly find time to work on the story. I am going to take a posting break (for a few weeks perhaps), and resume posting once I am not so distracted. Until next time, peace and health to you all! :D


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

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As a peasant girl, Agnes's daily life was one laden with chores and duties, the time the two friends had together was very much restricted. Emma might not have a friend of her age and sex for fourteen years of her life, but the young Hartfield Mistress had little difficulty in learning to be a friend with sense and sensitivities. Though lively Emma had a great fondness for chasing rabbits, catching butterflies, and climbing trees, she was mindful of Agnes's poor constitution, thus their pursuits generally did not require too much physical exertion.

They would take walks as exercise, either in the Hartfield shrubberies or in the gardens at Donwell Abbey when they were visiting with their mutual admirer – Wobble! And when the two girls grew fatigue, they would spend their time indoors at Hartfield. They chatted, sewed, and knitted together. And, to the delight of Miss Taylor, the two friends, more often than not, would read together – Yes! Read together! – Emma's confined life and Agnes's poor constitution had driven both girls to adventurous stories that could take them to places they could not reach, and meet people who only existed in someone else's worlds. '_The Arabian Nights' _was their favourite, Agnes loved it so much that she had bidden Emma to read the book to her twice already, and Emma was glad to oblige.

To Emma's greatest delight, she had discovered that Agnes's embroidery skill was so superb that it even surpassed the superior Miss Taylor's. But it was not surprising to Emma that Agnes should possess such skills - unlike other children in the village who spent most their time working in the field or playing out of doors, when the fragile girl was not resting languidly in her bed, Agnes would spent most of her time behind doors doing crafty work to earn extra income or working on embroideries and sewing for the family. The intricacy and elegance of Agnes's embroidery had opened Emma's eyes to new appreciation for the craft and inspired her to learn stitchery with enthusiasm.

One of Agnes's favourite pastimes at Hartfield was listening to Emma practicing and singing at the pianoforte. Nevertheless, to Agnes's amazement, her friend, who was blessed with a God-given sweet voice and a magnificent piece of instrument, lacked the patience and industry to indulge in such wonderful blessings. Often times Agnes had to beg her friend to sing and play music for her, and heavens knew how Emma took pleasure in torturing (in a very good-naturedly way) her friend! The mischievous fourteen-year-old would oblige her friend only under the condition that Agnes should teach her a new stitching pattern. Then finally, in order to induce Emma to indulge her with her musical talents without excessive begging, Agnes concocted a scheme that could get both girls what they wanted.

For every quarter of an hour of singing and practicing at the pianoforte, the young Hartfield Mistress would receive ten points, and when she had gained forty points, Agnes would teach her a new stitching pattern. The more points Emma could gather, the more advanced the stitching pattern became. The ultimate aim of the challenge was for Emma to embroider a handkerchief that no one could tell whether it was from the hands of the master or that of her apprentice. The fourteen-year-old might forever lack the patience to do anything requiring industry, and she might have abandoned her desire to learn stitchery all together the first moment it did not please her, but the young mistress loved a good challenge, and she considered this an excellent one to contest with, hence had placed herself under strict resolution to win this with flying colours!

While Emma was still toiling for her resolve, the unintended beneficiaries of her labours were already reaping their fruits merrily. Needless to say, Agnes had gotten to enjoy her friend's musical talents without begging; Mr. Woodhouse delighted immensely in the lovely sight of his beloved youngest daughter and her good-natured friend at his house – the warm domestic scenery had brought home some very fond memories for the old father, reminding him of what Hartfield was like before his poor Isabella's removal to London; and of course Miss Taylor was overjoyed to see her sweet charge exerting herself vigorously on her musical practices without the governess's endless pleadings, she graciously accredited Agnes for her ingenious scheme and wondered if the peasant girl had more such schemes to be applied to other areas of Emma's intellectual pursuits.

As for Mr. Knightley, Emma's lessened presence at the Abbey had indeed dampened the spirit of everyone at the ancient mansion, but the gentleman was grateful to have his private wish for Emma to have a worthy friend granted; and though he could not say for certain whether he should be thankful for the unexpected effect of Emma's challenge, he was certainly amused – for the gentleman had become the sole recipient of Emma's stitchery practices, and had received many a handkerchief embroidered with his name and initials in a vast many stitching patterns, some half done, some quarterly done, most of them crooked, fortunately all of them spelled correctly, or at least appeared to be – Emma had given him so many handkerchiefs that there were enough to last the gentleman through the next decade!

* * *

On this day during the onset of the autumn season, when the sun was no longer burning to the skin, the breezes were light and refreshing, and the crispness of the air could make one's nose tingle, though it could be a little chilly, a woollen shawl was all that was sufficient to keep a young lady warm. Agnes had finished her home duties almost an entire hour early, which gave the two friends more time on their hands. Since Agnes had not seen Wobble for three days and had the greatest desire to visit the spaniel, their first pursuit was a short walk to Donwell. As Mr. Knightley was out examining the fields, Emma and Agnes took Wobble out to the garden for a stroll, but before they took another turn round the bushes, a sudden idea came to Emma.

"Have you ever seen an otter cub, Agnes?" Emma asked her friend curiously.

"I have not even seen an otter in my life!" feeling a little sheepish, Agnes replied.

"Not even an _otter_?" Emma stared at her friend with surprising eyes. "Then you must wish to see one for yourself, Agnes!" She began excitedly, "Otters are the most adorable water creature! Their coats are thick and sleek which make them look so cuddly and soft! They are brilliant swimmers, and could stay under water for minutes at a time. And do you know that their whiskers could help them find food in the murkiest of water?"

Agnes was surprised by her friend's expert knowledge. "How did you know all that, Emma?" she asked.

Emma shrugged. "I have spent hours and hours watching them by the river near Hartfield since I was a little girl. I love the way they swim, so freely and effortlessly. Otters are very playful creatures too, you know, they would go diving for pebbles just to amuse themselves! Mr. Ottersquire and his wife have two new cubs; would you like to see them?"

"_Mr. __Ottersquire_? You _named_ the otters!" asked Agnes, greatly amused.

"Of course! I name all my animal friends! You know, all creatures are unique. Mr. Ottersquire has been an otter friend of mine for ages; he is a squire because he ought to be one of the oldest occupants at the river, for I have seen him there for as long as I could remember! He has a fairly large home range along the riverbanks, you see, he marks his range with his dung, which, according to Miss Bates, smells like a combination of jasmine and tea, mud and mint – Now, pray do not ask me how the lady knew!"

A peal of gurgles burst out of the two girls.

"Mrs. Ottersquire" Emma continued, "gave birth to two cubs two weeks ago and they have been growing exceedingly well. The cubs looked so adorable that they reminded me of Wobble when the first time I saw him. Would you like to see them for yourself?"

"Oh, I would love to see them!"

"Very well! Wobble, come!" One call from his mistress Wobble jumped to his paws and hovered about Emma's skirt wagging his furry tail excitedly.

"But you cannot bring Wobble to Hartfield, Emma! Does not Mr. Woodhouse dislike animals in the house?"

"Of course, Papa would never let any animal inside Hartfield! But we shall bring Wobble back to Donwell after our visit to the otters. Would you mind if we skip the singing and pianoforte practise for a day?" Emma pleaded.

"Humph... only for a day!" Agnes graciously granted.

* * *

A few minutes into their short journey to the river near Hartfield, Agnes suddenly gasped and pulled Emma to the side of the road, hiding behind a big bush.

"_Oooh_!" Emma whispered, feeling excited and adventurous, "Why are we hiding, Agnes?" her eyes dancing with mischief, "Are we going to jump out from the bush and startle the man who is coming our way?"

"_No_!" Agnes was shocked by Emma's suggestion, trying hard to keep her anxious voice low, "Are you _mad_? That man is my _Papa_!"

Emma was absolutely delighted! She peered through the bush to steal a better glimpse of Agnes's father. The fourteen-year-old was amazed, she said, "So he's your papa... now I know whom you take after your dark hair and grey eyes - Agnes, you look just like your papa!"

"Everyone says so! _Shhhh_...Now be quiet, I shall be in trouble if Papa sees us!" the fifteen-year-old spoke seriously.

Mischievous Emma found her friend's anxious expression too amusing, which had made it difficult for her to suppress the giggles bubbling inside.

"_S__hhhh__hh_!" Agnes beckoned again, pinching Emma on the arm.

"_Owww_!" The fourteen-year-old yelped and stopped giggling.

Fortunately, in his hasty steps, Mr. Anderton did not notice the two girls hidden behind the big bush. Once Agnes was certain that they were completely safe from her father's sighting, they emerged from behind the bush and hopped back onto the road.

"Why were you afraid of your papa catching sight of us, Agnes?" Clever Emma knew the answer, but she wished to coax a confession from her friend.

"Ah... because... because I never told him that we were friends!" Agnes said it with guilt.

"Are you ashamed of being friends with me, Agnes?" Emma asked saucily, grinning mischievously at her friend. "Is that why you would not tell your papa?"

"Of course not!" Agnes retorted, "Why should I be ashamed of being friends with you?"

"But you would not tell your papa of our friendship?" teased Emma.

"Because my Papa dislikes rich people... you know that, do not you?"

"Hum, hum!" Emma nodded smugly. "I have known it all along! But do you mean to tell me that your papa never even suspected our friendship after all these times? I mean you have been meeting me at Donwell and Hartfield for the past month, and your papa does not have the slightest inkling?"

"No! Papa does not know!" Agnes confessed.

"What about your mama?"

"Mama knows of course! Mama is very fond of you, Emma!"

"But would not your mama tell your papa that we are friends?"

"No, Mama promised me that she would not tell Papa... Mama does not resent rich people the way Papa does!"

"But why does your papa resent rich people, Agnes? Did not Mr. Knightley give your papa a chance when no one else would? Should not that have changed his mind?" This was something that even the clever Emma could not comprehend.

Agnes sighed, "Mr. Knightley is different, Emma! Papa does like and respect Mr. Knightley... but he still dislikes all others... and Papa has his reasons... he has been this way for many years and I have to respect him even though I may not agree with him!"

"What are his reasons, Agnes?"

"I cannot tell you, Emma... I _can__no__t_!"

Agnes was beginning to look distressed, and Emma would not press her further.

* * *

They had come to the river by now, and Emma knew just exactly where to find the otters along the long riverbanks.

"Come here, Agnes," Emma had walked over to one side of the banks. "Over here," pointing at a muddy area only a yard away from the bottom of her feet, "you see this path, and how the vegetation area is flattened, these are the tell-tale signs of where the otters have been.

"Now come closer," Emma entreated her friend, "see the muddy slides down banks," the slides were only half a yard from where they stood, "the otters use these slides for play and easy access to the water!"

"Oh!" Agnes suddenly jumped, pointing at a floating creature not too far in the river. "Is that an otter... that... that... clump of fur-ball swimming on his back?"

"Yes... yes... that's Mr. Ottersquire!" Emma confirmed excitedly. The two girls were bounding up and down.

"Where are the cubs, Emma? I wish to see the cubs!" Agnes asked urgently.

Emma bent and shifted looking for the cubs.

She found them!

"_There_!" Emma pointed, "They are over by their mama, Agnes... can you see?"

"_Where_? _Where_?" Agnes was standing behind Emma slightly to her left, she asked desperately, "I cannot see them, where are _they_?"

"They are swimming behind the large water-plantain..." Emma said, still pointing, "A little to the left hand side... can you see them now?"

"_Ah_... _water-plantain_... _on the __left_..." Agnes placed a hand on Emma's shoulder for support, stood on her toes tips, cranked her neck up and stretched her torso in searching for a glimpse of the otter cubs.

"_Yes... yes_!" She found them; the fifteen-year-old was overjoyed. "I see them... I see them... they are amazing, Emma! So _ador__-ra-ahhhhhhhh_..." all of the sudden one of Agnes's feet slipped on the muddy bank, her hand lost its grasp on Emma's shoulder, and she slid down the muddy slide built by Mr. and Mrs. Ottersquire.

Emma heard the loud yelp, instantly she twirled round and discovered the horrid sight of Agnes sitting in the shallow murky muddy water, entangled in her own woollen shawl.

"Oh no! Oh no! Agnes... Agnes, are you hurt?" Emma cried out anxiously.

Wobbled sensed the commotion near him; the spaniel barked and wagged his tail most enthusiastically.

With the muddy hands that had dug under the water into the bottom of the river during her fall, poor Agnes pulled her shawl off her person, examined the absurdity of her predicament and replied, "Not hurt... just soaked in water and mud!"

Naturally, Agnes's hair was dishevelled by the fall, and as she swiped the strayed locks from her face, mud was smeared all over her cheek.

Emma kept staring at Agnes, and Agnes could not help but ask, "I have mud on my face, have not I?"

Emma nodded slowly and silently.

Horrid sight it was, but the horrid feeling only lasted for less than half a minute before Emma could not contain herself and burst out laughing!

The amused, but concerned, Emma carefully inched closer to the edge of the riverbank reaching out a hand to help Agnes get out of the water, but the older girl was seeking revenge, and one forceful tug at the hand by Agnes, Emma fell into the murky water, dragging Agnes along with her all the way down.

Splashes, mud, hair, hands, and wild giggles were flying all over the air!

Agnes took a deep breath, swiped the mud and water spattered on her lips and laughed. "This _ought_ to teach you not to laugh at me the next time I sit in muddy water!"

Oh, well! Only if the mischievous Hartfield Mistress were ready to learn her lesson, the act of punishment would have served its purpose. But instead of learning her lesson, Emma splashed even more muddy water onto Agnes's face, which officially engaged the two girls in a magnificent battle of the splashes!

Under the bewildered eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Ottersquire and their two otter cubs (along with several frogs and water voles,) the battle lasted for some time, until the two mud-coated river-water-drenched giggling-mad rascals stopped and realized what a disaster they both looked.

A sneeze and a cough burst from the shivering Agnes was all it took for the sensible Emma to cease all desire to battle. She said anxiously, "Come quick, Agnes! We'd better get you to Hartfield, washed and changed before you catch your death in those wet clothes!"

Agnes took one look at herself – she gladly obeyed.

* * *

Miss Taylor almost screamed when the sight of two muddy figures stormed into the Hartfield kitchen through the side door. The only way the governess could possibly recognize her charge was by her mischievous toothy-grin and her sparkling hazel eyes. Thank Heaven Mr. Woodhouse was slumbering peacefully in the drawing-room, or the old gentleman would have swooned at the horrible sight of his daughter and her friend soaking wet and catching cold in this chilly autumn day.

Hot bathes were ordered immediately for the two young ladies. Kate dutifully attended to her young mistress in her chamber, while Miss Taylor took Agnes into her chamber and help with her washing and toilette.

Once the two young ladies were swept off to their baths by Miss Taylor and Kate, Wobble was left in the kitchen in the capable hands of the Hartfield cook. When the golden spaniel was first introduced to Hartfield by Mr. Knightley's secret smuggling through the kitchen side door, Serle was at the scene of the crime and the first to witness the act. The Hartfield cook was immediately admitted into confidence and had taken a great liking of the adorable pup over the course of the secret play. The affection between the cook and the puppy was mutual; nevertheless, since Wobble became the permanent inhabitant at Donwell Abbey, the cook had not seen his little friend. Hence this afternoon gave kind Serle the pleasure of pampering the growing puppy that he was so fond of.

Naturally, the first order of the most import was a thorough scrub-down of the spaniel's paws. The good cook was keenly aware of the covert existence of the canine to his master. Mr. Woodhouse would fret over the tiniest of animals in his sacred dwelling, and if the old gentleman saw the muddy paw prints all over the floor, only the direst of consequences would come about. Next, a hot meal to satisfy the stomach of this precious spaniel must be called for. Serle happened to be dutifully concocting his employer's gruel (to be partaken upon Mr. Woodhouse's awakening from his afternoon nap) when Wobble and the two muddy young ladies walked into the kitchen, the good cook was certain that what was good for the person who paid his wages must be good for the beloved pet of the daughter of the person who paid his wages, he ladled a generous serving of the mixture in a dish, let it cool a little before serving it to Wobble. The kind Serle was very pleased - unlike the palates of most humans, the spaniel took delight of the mixture at the first tasting and licked the china dish sparkling clean!

* * *

Agnes was no longer shivering, once the peasant girl was scrubbed and dried, and put into one of Miss Taylor's dressing-gowns, the Hartfield governess wrapped her in a warm blanket and escorted her to Emma's bedchamber, as ordered by the young mistress herself, to find an appropriate dress for her friend to change into.

Emma was sitting in front of the dressing-table when Agnes walked into her bedchamber. The contented Wobble was nestling comfortably on his beloved mistress's lap while Kate was combing the long silken curls of her mistress. As in many prior occasions, Agnes admired the sight of her young friend – the teen mistress had already changed into a simple yet very elegant gown in the sage green colour, which always brought out the brilliancy in her hazel eyes; and the dampness from the bath in Emma's hair reflecting the sunlight shinning through the chamber window dazzled like a thousand stars showering upon a golden princess. And when the princess turned round greeting her with her luminous smiles and soft pink cheeks, Agnes's bosom could not help but envy – for her friend must be the most beautiful girl she had ever seen all her life.

Emma sent Kate away, laid Wobble down on the floor and leaped to her feet when she saw Agnes; grasping her friend by the hand leading her into her dressing-room where many beautiful dresses were hung.

"Tell me Agnes, which one of these dresses you like the most!" Emma asked her friend excitedly, sifting through the gowns one by one, "Any gowns in a soft colour would suit your dark hair and grey eyes perfectly!"

The fourteen-year-old took out one of her gowns holding it up in front of Agnes's person, "Humph... you are smaller than me..." her eyes sizing her friend's frame, "I think one of my old gowns would suite you better..." She then pulled out a muslin dress in primrose colour with gold ribbon trim, "what do you think of this one?"

Agnes, who had been standing there silently, in awe and in awkwardness, shook her head hesitantly, she said, "I cannot wear your dress, Emma..."

"Of course you can, Agnes! You are only slightly smaller than me, the gowns I wore a year or two ago would suit you just fine, I assure you that they would not be too big." Emma explained brightly.

"You do not understand..." Agnes's voice grew quiet.

"What do you mean, Agnes? You do not like my dresses?" Emma asked, innocently.

Agnes looked regretfully at her friend, "You are a gentleman's daughter, Emma! These gowns are for gentleman's daughters to wear. I am only a peasant girl... I cannot wear your gowns no matter how much I like them... if you would ask Kate to loan me one of her old dresses, it would suit me just fine."

"That is nonsense, Agnes!" Emma refused. "You are my friend; I would never have my friend wear my maid's dress! Besides, since I am a gentleman's daughter, and you are my friend, surely it has elevated you to suit you wearing these dresses. Now, would you pray try it on?"

It was the nonsensical girl speaking again, Agnes thought, her friend had a way of twisting sense to suit her liking. Had not her papa always said that no matter what one did, one could never alter one's situation in life? How could befriending a gentleman's daughter cause her to suit wearing these exquisite dresses? But Agnes appreciated the sincerity in Emma, and she thought she would compromise a little.

"Just this once, Emma, I would try it on... but I would be caught dead before I'd wear your expensive dress outside this house!"

Emma beamed, "Very well, I shall not force you to do anything you do not wish to do, just try this on and see if you like it!"

But Agnes took one look at the gold trim on the dress, she frowned! "This is too extravagant, Emma! Do you have anything plain?"

Emma pondered for a moment – her eyes sparkled – she had just the perfect gown in mind! She walked over to one side of the dressing-room and pulled out a white frock – the bridesmaid gown that she wore at Isabella's wedding – it was plain, but beautifully made with the most expensive cambric, and the delicate pink laces on the hem had made the feminine dress even more exquisite.

The young mistress smiled brightly at her friend, "This will fit perfectly on you!"

Agnes's heart pumped even faster when she saw the beautiful gown, but she quickly refused, "This is too beautiful, Emma, I cannot wear it!"

Emma looked smugly at her and replied saucily, "Well, Agnes, you only said you wanted something _plain_... and this is as _plain_ as you could get... just try it on!"

Grudgingly, Agnes obliged. She went behind the China screen, unwrapped the blanket round her person, disrobed Miss Taylor's dressing-gown, put on the chemise that Emma gave her, and tied the lace of Emma's old corset with effort, examined the white frock one more time before, at last, put it on. When all was done, the peasant girl emerged from behind the China screen.

Emma gasped, "You look beautiful, Agnes!" dragging her friend by the hand, "Come look at yourself in front of the mirror!"

Agnes could not believe her own eyes – she nearly failed to recognize her own image! The steam from the hot bath had given her pale cheeks a very pleasing colour, her slightly damped raven black hair was velvety smooth and shinning like the moon, her grey eyes were almost as sparkling as Emma's hazel ones, and the exquisite white frock fitted perfectly over her form, in spite of her slim frame, the snugness of the corset had given her curves that she never thought she had – the fifteen-year-old was so much in awed by her own image that she muttered unconsciously, "_I look__..._ _pretty__..._"

Emma was amazed, she protested, "Say beautiful, you silly girl! You look beautiful, Agnes!"

Young Emma was immensely pleased by the way her friend looked; she twirled Agnes round in front of the mirror many times in all directions, stopping and admiring her briefly just to twirl her round again and admiring her some more. Any other time Agnes would not have put up with such silliness, but this time the fifteen-year-old simply let Emma manipulate her in any shape or way as she pleased.

Emma had finally stopped twirling Agnes and went to sit down on the bench at the corner of the dressing-room, drenching herself in the sight of her pretty friend contentedly. But all of the sudden the fourteen-year-old froze.

"Where is Wobble?" she jumped to her feet and asked. She quickly looked round the dressing-room for her spaniel only to find that he was not there. Frantically, Emma ran out of the dressing-room searching for her pup in her chamber – she had looked behind her dressing-table, crawled under her bed, turned down her bedcovers, pulled aside all the draperies, she even lift opened the heavy lid of the cedar chest where many of her favourite toys were stored – but no Wobble in sight!

Agnes had followed Emma out of the dressing-room, and she noticed, "Look, Emma, the chamber door is not shut!"

Emma turned to see the door, she was shocked, "Oh no, oh no! Kate must have left the door ajar, and Wobble must have sneaked out of the chamber when we were in the dressing-room! Stay here, Agnes, I must find Wobble before Papa sees him!"

Emma flew out of the room, leaving Agnes alone in her chamber anxiously waiting for her friend to return with her pup.

* * *

**A/N:** I didn't think my posting break would last this long, but real life had not been kind - I got very sick for almost a month... then my daughter got sick... Oh well, every one is well now! I was not going to post again until I finished this section, but I wanted to wish those who were reading this story a Merry Christmas, so I broke my resolve and posted. Hope you didn't mind the long chapter, I enjoyed the time with Emma and Agnes, hope you did too! :D

Anyway, thank you so much for reading! And most importantly, Merry Christmas to you all! :D


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

* * *

"Are you ready for your paper and gruel, sir?" asked the maid, unfolding the gate leg table in front of her employer.

"Mmm," Mr. Woodhouse nodded.

The old gentleman had awakened from his afternoon nap not but ten minutes ago, as partaking his gruel and reading his newspaper immediately after his nap had been a decade-old habit of the Hartfield Master, his servant promptly brought forth the items without a moment delay.

While Kate was placing linen and arranging the silverware on the table, Miss Taylor had entered into the drawing-room. Without prompting, the governess fluffed her employer's pillow and put it behind his back just the way Mr. Woodhouse always liked.

"Where is Emma this afternoon, Miss Taylor?" The old father was used to waking up to find his daughter either somewhere in the house or at his gentleman-neighbour Mr. Knightley's mansion, but it was his habit to inquire the whereabouts of his beloved daughter at any rate.

"Emma and Miss Anderton are upstairs in her bedchamber, sir," replied Miss Taylor.

"Ah, Emma is with Miss Anderton, I see," said the old father, smiling contentedly. "Do not you think the Anderton girl is a nice girl, Miss Taylor?"

"Yes, sir, Miss Anderton is an excellent girl!" Miss Taylor admitted wholeheartedly.

The old father hesitated for a moment, "My only wish is that she was from a genteel family... but she and Emma get along so well..." Mr. Woodhouse paused searching his thoughts, a tender smile crept upon his wrinkly face, "You know, having her at Hartfield reminds me so much of the times when both my daughters were home... when Isabella was here..." The memory of his eldest daughter at home choked the father's voice, "No one is like my Isabella!" the old father sighed. "But one cannot help it when one's son-in-law must remove his daughter sixteen miles away from him!" another long sigh, "_Poor_ Isabella!" the father lamented deeply.

"Of course, Mr. Woodhouse," Miss Taylor smiled. The governess was amused by her employer, even after one and a half years of Isabella being happily married to a wonderful husband, the birth of a healthy infant grandson, and now another grandbaby on the way, the old father still would not accept his daughter's removal, but the governess knew her employer too well to counter his lamentation, she quietly arranged the gruel and paper to their proper positions before excusing herself from the drawing-room.

As no one was nearby to share his lamentation, the old father decided it was time to partake his mid-afternoon meal. Merrily, he picked up his silver spoon, scooped up a spoonful of the mixture, and delivered it to his mouth. After several slurping, Mr. Woodhouse rested his spoon on the side of the china bowl, and picked up his Highbury Gazette.

By the number of newspapers, periodicals and journals that Mr. Woodhouse subscribed, one might think that the old gentleman must be an ardent follower of the latest happenings in Highbury, England and the world. Many might even mistaken the slow-witted man for an intellectual superior by the number of hours he spent studying the various newspapers. But those who knew the old gentleman intimately, such as Mr. Knightley, would know that the sole object of Mr. Woodhouse in reading the papers was – the advertisements!

Outside of the little card-party, which Emma had formed for him, with the two Bates ladies and Mrs. Goddard, reading the advertiser pages had been the old father's favourite pastime. From ship to be sold by auction, beer company for rent, colliery for sale, to a wet nurse advertising for her service, food on the move French style which facilitated the armies of Bonaparte, and an oriental depilatory for removing the superfluous hairs from the face, neck, arms, &c. of ladies, all of which greatly amused this old gentleman.

On this day, Mr. Woodhouse had discovered an advertisement that was of his utmost and urgent interest – _Prince's Paste Pearls _for concealing decayed teeth in front! It was only a year ago that Mr. Woodhouse had discovered the cure for toothache through an advertiser, though the _Chemical Essence of Horseradish_ did not prevent the recurrence of the torturing malady as promised, upon its contact with the exposed nerve, it did stop the excruciating pain. Even Mr. Perry thought it was well done of Mr. Woodhouse to be willing to try something experimental, and since then, the apothecary had added the cure to his many readied remedies in his medicine case.

And now, if Prince's Paste Pearls could indeed conceal decayed teeth in the front, the old gentleman thought that he might be able to smile with a little more ease. Mr. Woodhouse casted all thoughts of partaking his gruel aside, gave his undivided attention to studying every word in the advertisement.

"Humph...'_is particularly recommended to persons residing distant from a Dentist'... _surely that would be me," the old gentleman murmured. "Ah... _'who have the misfortune of losing a front Tooth'... _I indeed have such misfortune!"

While Mr. Woodhouse was completely engrossed in the advertisement, dwelling on his own miserable misfortune of missing a front tooth, at the same time feeling hopeful of the bright future ahead of him, an unexpected company had silently entered into the room - rather than following his mistress and Agnes into the dressing-room, Wobble must have caught the scent of Serle's delicious gruel and followed the enticing fragrance to the Hartfield Master's side.

Perhaps if Mr. Woodhouse had discovered in the past a cure for feeble hearing through the advertiser pages, the old gentleman would have heard the spaniel slurping his gruel while his face was buried behind the newspaper, but as there was no such magical cure, the cunning little beast was able to devour half the bowl of gruel without the old man noticing a weeny of it!

"And... '_by the use of the Paste Pearls, substitute a Tooth themselves in a few minutes by following the inclosed directions!'" _How delighted he was to learn of the ease of use of the pearl – a rare toothy grin, or rather a toothless one, spread across Mr. Woodhouse's face!

"'_They have been found of infinite service by persons wearing Artificial Teeth, who are in the habit of travelling, as in case of any accident they are possessed of a substitute to support the deficiency till the assistance of a Dentist can be procured. Half-a-guinea per box, containing six Paste Pearls, or a box containing fifteen at one guinea'..._ Humph!" The grin had disappeared, and the old man's face fell, he exclaimed, "_But_... but I do not travel, and heavens forbid accidents should happen to me... this must not be for me!" A heavy pang of disappointment slapped Mr. Woodhouse's heart.

His attention to the advertisement no longer undivided; Mr. Woodhouse leaned forward and reached out one hand - while the other still holding the newspaper up in front of his face - for his silver spoon.

However, instead of his silverware, his cold thin hand landed on something else – Wobble's head!

Poor Wobble, who just licked the gruel bowl clean, was frightened by the bony hand – the spaniel jumped and began to bark frantically!

Poor Mr. Woodhouse, who thought he was alone in the drawing-room picking up his spoon, was startled by the warm furry and the warm furry's bark – the newspaper flew out of his hand, and off his armchair the old man jumped!

"_Ahhhh__hhh_!" The startling touch had set off a loud scream from the old father, which in turn, caused the spaniel to bark even more frantically.

The clamour of confusion from the old man and the little beast brought almost the entire Hartfield household to the drawing-room.

"Mr. Woodhouse! You screamed?" Miss Taylor was the first to arrive, startled and concerned.

"Sir! Your paper!" Kate was next, eyeing the paper scattered on the floor.

"Thieves... where... how dare they?" The Hartfield cook rushed in, holding a cleaver ready to defend his master's house.

"_Oh_! _Dear_!" Emma came running in, panting; her eyes immediately darted to the golden spaniel barking at her father.

Once the old father was steady on his feet, he blinked his eyes to survey the barking beast, "Whose dog is _this_?" the dizzy old man demanded scornfully, "Why is there a canine in my house?"

Miss Taylor, Kate, and Serle turned their eyes upon Emma instantly; all of them stood in silence, unwilling to betray their young mistress and her secret pet.

"Animals are filthy! Have I not said no animal allowed in the house for years? Why is there a dog here?" the agitated father demanded again, "Whose dog is _this_?"

Emma's heart thudded loudly and rapidly, she knew her papa would be displeased of having a dog in his house, but did not expect him to be as agitated as this.

"Papa... ah..." Mr. Woodhouse turned to stare at Emma as she stammered. "Ah... he... he is... ah..."

"He is my dog, sir," the voice of Emma's dearest friend broke in.

Mr. Woodhouse shifted.

"For heaven's sake, Mr. Knightley, why did you bring your dog to my house?" the old gentleman reproached.

"I am terribly sorry, sir! Emma left her shawl at Donwell, I had come to bring her her shawl; my spaniel must have followed me all the way from Donwell to Hartfield without my noticing of it. I hope he did not cause havocs for you, sir," Mr. Knightley said respectfully to the old gentleman, and the wink he gave Emma escaped the old father's notice.

"Mr. Knightley," Mr. Woodhouse exasperated, "pray, have a heart to put a lead on your dog and tie it to a post!"

Mr. Knightley smiled ruefully and nodded.

The old father turned his mind and gaze back to his previous engagement, but one look at his bowl he cried, "Oh! My gruel... is... is... all gone! Your dog... ate my gruel!" He frowned harshly at the grinning spaniel, who was hopping up and down getting excited by the presence of both his master and his mistress, wagging his tail wreaking a draught in front of the grumpy old man.

"Sit, Wobble!" commanded Mr. Knightley, the golden furry stopped wagging his tail immediately and sat on the floor obediently.

"I shall fetch you a new bowl of gruel, sir!" Serle quickly removed the empty bowl from the table and went to the kitchen, and Kate busied herself gathering the newspaper on the floor for her master.

While Miss Taylor attended the old father, who was shaking his head, sinking down into his armchair and opening his newspaper again, Emma quickly picked up Wobble and walked to the window with Mr. Knightley, to be out of her father's ear shot.

Heaving an immense sigh of relief, with infinite gratitude in her hazel eyes, she said to Mr. Knightley, "I am so glad you came to our rescue, Mr. Knightley! If Papa found out that Wobble was mine, he would have forced me to give him up!"

Mr. Knightley chuckled, "But then _you_ would have given him up to _me_!"

Wrinkling her nose at him playfully, Emma smiled brilliantly up at Mr. Knightley.

"And you," clasping Wobble to her, she shifted her gaze speaking to the fur-ball tenderly, "you little rascal you! Did you know that you almost scared my Papa half to death?"

Mr. Knightley raised an eyebrow, reaching his hand stroking the spaniel's fine coat in Emma's arms, "Emma, I think your father _was_ the one who scared _Poor_ Wobble half to death!"

The two friends happily laughed and giggled at each other.

"But Emma," when Mr. Knightley's laughter subsided, he asked, "why did you bring Wobble to Hartfield when you knew your father disliked animals excessively?"

Emma's hazel eyes lit up, "Oh! Mr. Knightley, Agnes and I had the most magnificent battle of the splashes in the river!"

While everyone rushed into the drawing-room upon hearing Mr. Woodhouse's sudden scream, Agnes had followed the commotion of the Hartfield inhabitants, but instead of flocking to the side of the old gentleman, she had been standing behind the staircase outside the drawing-room watching the whole Mr. Woodhouse-Wobble-fiasco unfold. And when Mr. Knightley came into the drawing-room from the door to the garden, Agnes moved herself closer to the threshold to get a better glimpse of the happenings inside.

Through the corner of his eyes, Mr. Knightley caught sight of the peasant girl; the gentleman took off his hat and gave the girl a graceful bow. Emma also turned round smiling at her friend warmly. Remaining at the threshold, Agnes curtsied shyly in return but then immediately tucked herself behind a pillar.

After his bow, Mr. Knightley returned his attention back to Emma, exclaiming, "You went playing in the river on this cool autumn day? Emma, what if you catch cold!"

"Oh, Mr. Knightley, pray do not sound like my father! It was not so very cold. Besides, it was an accident, Agnes fell into the muddy river while watching the otter cubs!"

"So you finally took your friend to see Mr. Ottersquire's family. Did the two of you scare the family like your father scared Wobble?"

"Of course not," giggling, Emma replied sprightly, "Mr. and Mrs. Ottersquire and their cubs thought we were quite an amusement!"

"But Emma, Miss Anderton's constitution is not as strong as yours, getting wet in a cool day like this may not be wise."

"Which was why we came to Hartfield immediately after getting off the river instead of taking Wobble back to Donwell, so that Agnes could wash and change into my clothes!"

Mr. Knightley said, smiling down at Emma, "Very well! At least the colour on your cheeks seems to suggest that you had a good exercise; and Miss Anderton does not seem to look..." he looked up searching for Emma's friend, "as pale..." but Agnes had already disappeared from where she was standing.

Emma's radiant face lit up again, she asked, "Did you see how Agnes looked, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley shook his head, looking bewildered.

"She was wearing the bridesmaid dress I wore on Isabella's wedding, she was positively beautiful in that gown!"

The gentleman said, "As I am quite a blockhead when it comes to ladies' fashion, I would leave it to you to be the better judge of Miss Anderton's looks.

"Now, here is your shawl," handing the neatly folded garment to Emma, Mr. Knightley said with twinkling eyes, "this is the third time you left your shawl at Donwell in a week, Emma, I am beginning to think that you left it there on purpose just to make me walk the extra miles to bring it to you!" He gave a playful tuck at her long curls, a gesture that he often did when he teased her.

Emma smiled mischievously up at him, "Well, are not you the one who's so fond of walking and exercising?" poking at his chest, she said vivaciously, "The extra walk is good for you, Mr. Knightley!"

"Hum! Thank you for thinking of my health, my friend!" the gentleman took a bow paying tribute to Emma's playful kindness. "I think I'd better take Wobble back to Donwell now," shooting an amusing glance at Mr. Woodhouse, "before he starts going after your father's gruel again!"

What the gentleman said had sufficiently launched more giggles and laughter from the two friends, and their dog!

* * *

Unbeknown to neither Emma nor Mr. Knightley, while the two of them were speaking to each other by the drawing-room window, Agnes was hidden behind a wall observing the interactions between these two friends. From the moment Agnes ever laid eyes on Emma, she had admired the young Hartfield Mistress's appearance excessively, but it was the unpretentious generosity and kindness of the young beauty that won the true admiration of this proud peasant girl. The growing friendship between the two girls over the past month had given Agnes even more reasons to believe that her friend deserved every blessing that the earth had to bestow upon a young lady, and the best of all blessings Emma had received was the faithful friendship from the kindest gentleman a woman could ever meet in her life. What Agnes would not give to have the care and attention of a perfect gentleman such as Mr. Knightley? The fifteen-year-old knew she was too young to be in love, at least that was what her mother had told her, but if she were to ever fall in love, she would give anything to be in love with someone much like... Mr. Knightley!

While Emma walked Mr. Knightley and Wobble to the garden sending them off on their journey to Donwell Abbey, Agnes had quietly returned to Emma's bedchamber waiting patiently upon Emma's return.

"Oh, Agnes, I am so glad you are still here!" Emma entered in and exclaimed with joy at the sight of Agnes.

"I should really be going, Emma. Would you ask Kate to loan me an old dress of hers so that I could change and take my leave?" Agnes asked quietly.

"But, Agnes, you look beautiful in this dress, would not you wish to wear it to show others how beautiful you are?" asked Emma sincerely.

"No, Emma..." Agnes looked down at her hands, "I told you that your dresses were for gentlemen's daughters to wear... I am not a gentleman's daughter... it was folly that I even tried this on!"

"But Agnes, so long as you look beautiful in it, why should you care whether you are a gentleman's daughter or not?"

"But I am not beautiful, Emma! Even if I wore your dress... no one would notice me..."

"Of course people would notice you, Agnes!"

"_Mr. Knightley_..." Agnes whispered, "_did not_..."

Though it was not meant to be heard, Emma caught Agnes's whisper, "Of course, Mr. Knightley noticed you! He thought you did not look as pale!" Emma corrected her friend.

Agnes gathered that her clever friend could be quite daft at times. In her heart she said to Emma, _"...but Mr. Knightley __did not t__hink I was beautiful, you silly girl... I dare say he would__ not even think of__ me__ from one month__'s__ end to another__...__"_

The peasant girl looked up and shook her head slightly, responding simply, "Mr. Knightley was being kind."

"Of course Mr. Knightley was kind, Agnes! But he was telling the truth, Mr. Knightley would never say anything he did not mean!"

"I know," replied Agnes quietly, heart sinking.

Willing to change the subject, Agnes put on a smile for Emma, "Speaking of kindness, it was truly kind of Mr. Knightley to rescue you from your papa like that."

Emma smiled sweetly, looking self-indulged, she said, "Mr. Knightley might have lectured me many times, but he has rescued me just as many times on similar occasions!"

While observing Emma's sweet smile, Agnes fell into a reverie.

"Emma..." a sudden notion came to Agnes, impulsively she asked, "Do you like Mr. Knightley?"

That was a _very__, very_ strange question from her friend! Emma thought.

"Of course!" Emma answered a-matter-of-factly, "Mr. Knightley has been my friend all my life, of course I like him!" Her sweet smile continued to spread across her face.

"But that's not what I meant, Emma!" blurted Agnes.

"Then what did you mean, Agnes?" perplexed, Emma asked.

"What I meant was..." Agnes had made up her mind to plunge, "do you fancy Mr. Knightley?"

"_What_?" Emma's eyes instantly went big and round!

Could there be a more astonishing question ever asked? Emma did not know. All she knew was, "_I... I_..." the astounded Emma drawled, "I am only fourteen years old, Agnes... _why_ would I fancy anybody?"

Emma spoke the truth when she said she did not fancy anyone. For starter, she was indeed too young to broach the matter concerning romantic feelings of the hearts. And she had also remembered how Isabella used to act like a fool when she fell in love with John: Laughing at the silliest and dullest jokes that John told them, always taking the ogre's side when Emma pulled pranks on him, crying her eyes out when John had to return to his school term at Cambridge, getting insanely jealous at the sister of John's Cambridge mate when he spent one Easter with his mate's family rather than coming home to Donwell, went hysterical when John fell off his horse breaking his leg on his way home for Christmas, and the worst of all – could not complete a sentence without saying John's name _fifteen_ times at the least! The fourteen-year-old would rather be an old maid than a fool-in-love!

"But Mr. Knightley is such a kind man, Emma! Do not you think that you and he would make a great match in only a few years?" speaking from her heart, Agnes urged, "Will you marry him when you grow up, Emma, will you?"

The already astounded Emma was even more stunned! The subject of matrimony had never, _ever__,_ made its way to her youthful head. Being fourteen and a young mistress, Emma had a thousand better things to occupy her lively mind. She still loved the great outdoors, still enjoyed befriending her creature friends, boys were still disgusting and tedious, but having a new friend of her sex and close to her age had put so many sparkles in her confined life that she felt life would never be the same again! So why would anyone, especially her, wish to think of the wretched subject now?

Emma just stood there - Agnes's sudden question had indeed caught her completely without her guard... and to throw Mr. Knightley, who was her friend, her best friend her entire life, into the matter was like jumbling the world into a muddling mass! What an entirely astonishing, utterly incomprehensible, tottering between ridiculous and absurd question her friend had asked?

The witty Emma had lost all her ability to speak; she stared at Agnes with an opened mouth.

"As you have said so many times, Emma," Agnes continued, "that Mr. Knightley is the kindest of men! Do not you wish to marry him when you grow up?"

"_But_..." agonizingly slowly, Emma began to come out of her wordless state, "_but__..._ I shall not marry, Agnes..."

Not even thinking of Mr. Knightley at that moment, Emma remembered the resolution she made the night before Isabella's wedding, "Who shall take care of my Papa if I married... women always leave their homes when they wed... Isabella has long been removed to London... if I married I shall have to leave Hartfield... then my Papa will be all lonely and sad!" Renewing her resolve, Emma cried, "I shall never marry, never leave Hartfield, never leave my Papa!"

Agnes wished to wrap her hands round Emma's neck and strangle her, to choke some sense into the blind girl! How could her friend be so daft as to not seeing in only a few years what a perfect match she and Mr. Knightley would make?

"Well," Agnes thought of a scheme to help her friend see better, "if you would not marry him, then perhaps he would marry one of the ladies from the parish instead!"

"_What_?" More shocking words could not have come from a person's mouth! Emma snapped loudly, looking incredulously at Agnes.

With no intention to hold back, Agnes carried on, "Do you know how often the ladies from the parish speak of what a marvellous catch Mr. Knightley would make? And do you know what they say? They say who would not wish to catch a handsome young landowner of a large estate like the Master of Donwell!"

Emma was horrified, absolutely horrified! She looked at Agnes, aghast, "That _cannot_ be true! You are lying, Agnes! No woman... _no_ _woman_ could speak of... or even think of Mr. Knightley in such vulgar way!"

"I do not tell lies, Emma! You should have seen how they practically drooled every time they spoke of Mr. Knightley! They said how they adored his tall and firm figure, his dark eyes, his full and soft hair, how they loved listening to his masculine voice, and looking at the dimples on his face when he smiled!"

Poor Emma's heart was pounding so hard that the noise of her own heartbeat was overpowering Agnes's voice. She looked at Agnes with fiery eyes, willing her friend to stop.

But Agnes would not!

"You know, Mr. Knightley needs an heir for Donwell!" Keeping her eyes on Emma's discomposure, Agnes threw more fuel to the fire, "How old is he now? Thirty or near thirty - the prime of his life! But if you would not marry him in a few years, when his prime passes, surely the man would grow desperate and marry the first woman who would throw herself at his feet!"

"Stop, Agnes! _Stop_!" Emma cried out painfully; the poor young mistress shut her eyes in disgust and covered her ears with both hands. "Do not speak of those vulgar women from the parish anymore!"

"But of course I must speak of them, Emma!"

"No, you _must_ not... you _must _not!"

Emma opened her maddening eyes, looking at Agnes furiously, "Did you say you wanted an old dress of Kate's? I shall go speak with her at once!"

Emma flung opened her bedchamber door and stormed out of the room.

Watching Emma getting upset the way she did wrenched Agnes's heart! She said what she said only to make her friend see how important Mr. Knightley was to her entire being, and how perfectly they suited each other in only a few years time. Agnes had thought if she would press Emma harder, Emma's eyes might be opened to the truth. Only that her scheme was not working, and she would obey her friend's request - she would stop and speak no more on the matter. Nonetheless, Agnes promised herself that she would never stop praying to Heaven that one day her friend would open her eyes and realize her own heart - before it was too late!

* * *

**A/N**: Happy New Year! Hope everyone had an enjoyable holiday with friends and families! Thank you so much for reading, and as always, I would love to hear your thoughts! :D


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

* * *

Those who possessed an uncontainable imagination, as Emma Woodhouse did, would be able to attest that having such imagination could be a blessing, as well as a curse.

Being the child of a valetudinarian, confined in Highbury all her life, Emma's imagination was a gift from Above to rid the boredom in her childhood years. While her dear father and sister loved her excessively, they were not her equal in either spirit or mind; and though Miss Taylor, with the mildness of her temper, had supplied little short of a mother in affection to the child, could not meet the yearnings in her young charge's heart. Emma's insatiable curiosity had caused her longing to see places she could not travel to and people she could not meet. Imagination was the only vehicle that could take her to those places and allowed her to see people whom she longed to go near.

Nevertheless, just as the power of Imagination could free her mind from boredom, it could also trap Emma's spirit in her own despair. A tiny seed of anxiety could turn into disproportionate fear by her out-of-control fancy (such as the time when she thought Mr. Knightley would scold her till she turned purple and led to her hiding from him for five long days,) nights and nights of sweet slumbers could be robbed of her by her own mind's doing.

And tonight was one of those nights...

Emma could not, would not, forget what Agnes said to her earlier in the day... _"th__ey practically drooled every time they spo__ke of Mr. Knightley... __how they adored __his tall and firm figure, __his dark eyes, his full and soft hair__...how they loved listening to__ his masculine voice__... looking __at __the dimples on his face when he smiled__..."_

How could any – _an__y _– woman speak of Mr. Knightley in that way? How vulgar of those women to even think of catching a gentleman of Mr. Knightley's rank and stature? How dare they fancy Mr. Knightley, the perfect of all perfect gentlemen in Highbury, Donwell... or possibly all of England? Mr. Knightley, the firstborn son of an ancient genteel family, superiorly bred and informed, with mind and character that no person she knew could compare to, would never – _ever –_ lift an eye to those vulgar women!

_Or_... _would_ _he_?

What if he found those vulgar women agreeable? What if, as Agnes had said, he was desperate for an heir for Donwell? What if he decided to disregard his ancient family's reputation and debase himself with a low-born woman? There must be hundreds of those women in the parish! All it took was one – just _ONE_!

And... and... if Mr. Knightley married, what would become of _her – _her role in his life? What would become of their friendship? Could _she_ still be coming and going of Donwell Abbey as freely as she did? Could _he_ still spend breakfast hour, partake supper, or sit in the Hartfield drawing-room sipping tea with her papa and her? What about _Wobble_? Would the wicked Donwell Abbey Mistress be jealous of the joint-endeavour between her husband and his young friend and cast away their precious pup?

It was maddening, positively _maddening_! The thought of losing Mr. Knightley's companionship, his affection, his care, his attention, his friendship was too much for the fourteen-year-old to bear. Emma sprang up from her bed and threw her pillows on the floor!

"Papa always says matrimony is a sad business! Papa is right! I _hate_ matrimony!" the fourteen-year-old exasperated aloud. And when her anger could not be waned, Emma dropped back down in her bed, pulled the covers over her head, continued to dwell on her maddening miseries for the rest of the night!

* * *

The long miserable hours of the night were gone, and the chilly grim morning had arrived. With a head-full of aches and woes, a pair of dark shadowy eyes, and a dispirited heart, Emma sat down at breakfast with her father, Miss Taylor and Mr. Knightley.

While the other partakers at the dining-table were exchanging friendly conversations with one another, Emma kept her silence and pricked at her eggs. Fortunately, her father did not notice her shadowy eyes, for she had not looked up to meet anyone's eyes throughout the meal. However, when Mr. Knightley stood up from his chair announcing that it was time for him to take his leave, Emma finally looked up from her plate.

"Would not you wish for... more eggs, Mr. Knightley?" she asked weakly.

"Thank you, Emma," Mr. Knightley smiled, "Serle had outdone himself this morning! I have had enough eggs to last me for the rest of the week."

"What about... ah... preserves... preserves are your favourite, Mr. Knightley, would not you take another serving?" her voice was as sad as her looks.

"Emma, are you certain that you have not mistaken _your_ favourite for mine?" teased Mr. Knightley, wondering what was really on his young friend's mind.

Emma's spiritless eyes casted down dejectedly.

"Then..." she looked up briefly and pleaded, "would you sit with Papa and me for a little longer... just a little longer... Mr. Knightley?"

"I would have loved to Emma! But today is..."

Looking back down at her plate despondently, Emma involuntarily interrupted Mr. Knightley, "Today is Thursday, I know... it is the day you visit the tenants at Donwell... you always visit them on Thursdays..." her voice grew sadder and sadder, so did her countenance, "leave if you must... your tenants are more important than Papa and me..."

But the truth, which Emma took for granted, was that Mr. Knightley would always make time for this dear friend of his. Especially as he had noticed her dark shadowy eyes as soon as she entered into the dining-room, he had also wondered why she did not even touch the bowl of preserves, her absolute favourite, laid in front of her plate, and the fact that she seemed not willing him to leave Hartfield this morning told him something was bothering her young mind.

"Emma," Mr. Knightley said kindly, she looked up, "would you care to walk me to the gate?"

* * *

Once they had walked out of the house, rather than going to the gate, Mr. Knightley suggested a turn at the shrubberies instead.

Silently, the two of them walked side by side for some time before Mr. Knightley began speaking of the weather and the harvest at Donwell – diverting Emma's attention to some unrelated matters until she was ready to speak was a tactic he often employed to draw her out.

Half-heartedly, Emma endured to listen to Mr. Knightley's talk of the crop harvest; she even made an effort to ask if he had begun planning for the Harvest Supper. But when Mr. Knightley was gladly naming the menu for the event, Emma finally broke open her heart and spoke.

"Mr. Knightley..." quite unsure at first, "Are there... ah... are there many ladies in the Donwell parish?" asked Emma.

The question took Mr. Knightley by surprise. What a strange thing to ask? What did how many ladies in the Donwell parish have to do with her dejected countenance? He wondered.

"Humph... I suppose, I never counted," the gentleman replied, awkwardly.

They strolled quietly for another moment, Mr. Knightley noticed Emma's distant gazes – she seemed deep in thought – he was hopeful that she was about to reveal what was on her mind.

"Do you..." she began slowly, looking down at her hands, "do you take off your hat when you see the ladies in the parish?"

_That_ – was an even stranger question! Perhaps it was too soon for the gentleman to hope.

Mr. Knightley patiently replied, "A gentleman always takes off his hat when he greets a lady, does he not?"

Emma looked up abruptly; her glare landed sharply on the top of his head, she frowned.

"But your hair is full and soft, Mr. Knightley!" she grew cross as she spoke. "You'd do better to keep your hat on your head to keep the wind from dishevelling it!" the young lady reproached.

_Did she just scold him?_ Mr. Knightley was taken aback. Emma had said many things to him in many imaginable and unimaginable ways, but she had never, _ever_, scolded him! Since when had the table between him and his young friend turned? And for what reason?

The gentleman would endure though.

"Do you speak with them?" asked Emma, suddenly.

He looked at her quizzically. "With _whom_?"

"The ladies in the parish of course?" cried Emma.

"Oh!" Bewildered, Mr. Knightley attempted to reply, "Well..."

_Could this be a trap?_ He was cautious, had to think this one through. "Yes... er... no..." he needed more intelligence, "What do you mean by that, Emma?"

"I mean... in which _voice_ do you speak with them?" Emma clarified.

Being quite at a loss, Mr. Knightley regarded the question, "_In which voice__ do I speak with them..."_ Still – more information was required.

"Emma, is there more than one voice to speak with the ladies in the parish?" the gentleman inquired seriously.

"Well... you tell me," sounding annoyed, "you are the one who speaks with them?" Emma stared up at him with knitted brows.

"No, Emma, you must be more specific, I do not think I understand your question!" The gentleman's patience was being put to test.

Emma pouted at first, but went on to explain, "Well... do you speak to the ladies like _this_?" she lowered her voice to make it sound solemn, "Or _this_?" raising her tone to a higher pitch, "Or... _this_?" she did her best to imitate his masculine voice to no avail.

If the gentleman looked absolutely baffled - he was!

_This ought to be leading somewhere_! Mr. Knightley tried to assure himself. He took a deep breath, "Well, Emma, I speak with them like this," said Mr. Knightley plainly, in the only voice he had.

Her brows furrowed severely, Emma exasperated, "Must you speak in _that _voice?" Stamping one foot in frustration, "No _wonder_!" picking up her skirt, she stalked ahead.

_What was wrong with his voice?_ Mr. Knightley was utterly lost! This had never happened to him before. Usually after several attempts, Emma would begin to open up and let whatever pent-up inside her out, but she seemed speaking riddles today, and with all his cleverness, he could not decipher the meanings hidden behind.

Another deep breath and two long strides, Mr. Knightley was standing by Emma's side - with tried patience.

"Do you smile at them?" Emma turned and threw another odd question at him.

He shook his head with growing frustration and said, "Emma, what does my smiling at anyone have to do with anything?"

Either she did not hear what he said, or decided to disregard his question. "Do you _smile_ at them?" she repeated firmly.

"I suppose!" blurted Mr. Knightley, "At times I do, at times I do not! What does it have to do with anything?"

"_How_?" demanded Emma.

"How _what_?"

"_How_ do you smile at them?"

He looked at her with disbelieving eyes, refusing to answer.

"_How_, Mr. Knightley, do you smile at them?" the young lady was relentless.

"Emma - _why_?"

"Just show me _how_!"

This was nonsense, and Mr. Knightley had the least desire to put up with this. Yet, it seemed very important to Emma, and as she had refused to explain and he wished to know what was on her mind, the gentleman gave in.

"This is _ridiculous_..." he grumped first.

Then, with the greatest strength the gentleman could muster, he tilted the corners of his lips upward in very slow motion (as if every muscle of his face resisted the order) and tried hard to lift his brows, but instead of lifting them, his painful endeavour had arched his brows to a miserable crease.

One look at his agonized expression, Emma's face turned dark, "I only asked you to smile... not to eat _gruel_!"

For some strange reasons, rather than irritating his nerves, the thunderous look on Emma's face and the word 'gruel' amused Mr. Knightley so much that it put a wide grin on his face.

Emma stared at his grinning-face with her mad round eyes for a split second. Stamping both her feet, she cried out aloud, "I _hate_ dimples!"

_That was __enough_! Mr. Knightley threw his last bit of patience in the gutter, grasping at her shoulders, he asked, "What is the matter, Emma? Why are you asking me all these strange questions? What is bothering you? Out with it - _Now_!"

Deep in frown and pout, Emma looked up at him and poured it all out, "Agnes said that the ladies in the parish said you would make a marvellous catch... she said they practically drooled when they spoke of you! She also said that they adored your full and soft hair... your masculine voice..." her deep frown deepened, "... and... and the dimples on your face when you smiled!"

She flung his hands off her shoulders, turned round and declared madly, "I _hate_ dimples!"

Mr. Knightley thanked Heaven that Emma had turned round, or he would have been mortified to let his young friend witness him coloured furiously in front of her eyes.

The gentleman waited until the hotness on his face receded, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat before speaking to the young lady again.

"Emma," he said calmly, "could we take a seat on the bench?"

She slowly turned round and nodded.

They had sat themselves on a stone bench in the shrubberies.

"Emma, why did what the ladies in the parish said bother you so much?" asked Mr. Knightley. Though, in truth, what the ladies in the parish said bothered him as well, he saw no need to discuss his feelings at the moment.

Emma would not speak; she twisted her fingers, wrung her hands, and then twisted her fingers again, only to wring her hands even harder.

Mr. Knightley took hold of one of Emma's hand, folding it in his own hand gently but firmly, stopping her from wringing her hands incessantly, which had an instant calming effect on her.

"Tell me, Emma," he said gently, slowly releasing her hand from his hold, "why did it bother you so much?" the gentleman patiently awaited.

"_Because_..." she breathed, saying quietly, "_B__ecause_... no woman should speak... or even think of you in that way!"

He sighed. "But we cannot help what others say or how they think, can we?"

Emma looked up at him and frowned. "No!" she grudged and pouted.

He knew their discussion was far from settled, and he would give her time to say more.

"_But_..." a moment later, she said, "but... Agnes said that you... you might marry one of them someday!"

"What made her say that?" Mr. Knightley asked, frowning.

"She said that you would need an heir for Donwell... and that in a few years... you might marry the first woman who would throw herself at your feet!"

What Emma said was quite shocking to Mr. Knightley, but the gentleman remained his composure and addressed his friend in his usual steady manner.

"Emma, I have no notion how Miss Anderton got this idea in her head, but let me set this straight for you – I shall not marry the first _or_ any woman who would throw herself at my feet in a few years, _or_ ever!"

Emma looked up at him with her pensive hazel eyes; while there was a small assurance from what Mr. Knightley just said, the fourteen-year-old was far from relieved.

"Do not you wish an heir to succeed you?" asked Emma beseechingly.

"No man would marry for the sole purpose of producing an heir!" replied Mr. Knightley.

"But men of all ages have married just for that purpose, Mr. Knightley, why would not you?"

Mr. Knightley smiled, "You are right, Emma, I stand corrected. Let me say this then - I," lifting up a hand, he swore, "George Knightley of Donwell solemnly swear that I shall not marry for the sole purpose of producing an heir in a few years, or _ever_!" Even though the playful tone in his voice could easily be detected, the gentleman meant every word in his oath.

Emma giggled, feeling a little relieved.

A moment later, falling into pensiveness again, she asked, "But will you ever marry, Mr. Knightley?"

"Humph..." he was thoughtful, "As I do not know what the future holds, Emma, I cannot answer your question with either a yes or a no."

"But Mr. Knightley," Emma implored, "would you ever be induced to marry?"

"Emma," said Mr. Knightley sincerely, "I have always believed that a person should only marry or think of marriage to someone whom the person is deeply in love with."

Emma considered his answer, she asked with seriousness, "Have you ever been in love, Mr. Knightley?"

"You are as inquisitive as always, Emma!" Mr. Knightley smiled warmly, tugging at her long curls.

"Have you, Mr. Knightley?" she asked again, searchingly.

"No, Emma," replied Mr. Knightley, without hesitation, "not in the way that I wish to marry the woman and spend the rest of my life with her."

"You mean... not in the same foolish way that Isabella loved John, or John loved Isabella?" the innocent fourteen-year-old asked.

Repressing his laughter, Mr. Knightley replied, "Right, Emma, not in that _foolish_ way!"

Breathing an audible sigh of relief, the young lady exclaimed, "I am _so_ glad that you have not considered marriage, Mr. Knightley!"

"And may I ask why?" asked the gentleman, curiously.

"Because if there were _ever_ a Mrs. Knightley, you would not be able to visit me and Papa as often as you do, I shall not visit Donwell Abbey all the time, and you would not be sitting with me like this and be my friend any more... and think about Wobble, Mr. Knightley – whoever that Mrs. Knightley were would be jealous of him and cast him away!"

"Well, Emma," Mr. Knightley chuckled, "let me assure you that Wobble is in no present or future danger of being casted away!"

Emma's face beamed, feeling completely content. "This is perfect, Mr. Knightley, for I have decided to never marry myself, so the two of us can be friends for life!"

Surprised, "You have decided to _never_ marry?" Mr. Knightley asked.

"Hum, hum! I have long made up my mind!" declared Emma, "You must remember how silly John and Isabella acted before they wedded!"

Mr. Knightley looked at Emma amusingly, beckoning her to go on.

And she did. "No matter how much time they were in each other's company, it was never enough! And when they were apart, Isabella spent all day moping and wishing to see John again; everything seemed to remind her of him - the beaver in the river made her think of the hat that _Mr. John Knightley_ wore, a stroll by the pond reminded her of how _Mr. John Knightley_ jumped into it to find the bracelet she lost while splashing water at him next to the ducklings; the apple tart we ate after supper brought tears to her eyes because _Mr. John Knightley_ must be missing his Donwell apples while studying afar... and whenever _Mr. John Knightley_ was around, Isabella _never_ had time to play with _me_!"

While Emma was recounting her scruples against John and Isabella's courtship, Mr. Knightley was greatly amused.

"And I thought you were happy for Isabella and John, Emma!" Mr. Knightley said with an arched smile.

"Of course I was happy for them!" Emma said a-matter-of-factly. "Isabella would not be happy without John, and I wished all the happiness in the world for them... I... I only felt a little sad for myself!"

"And that was why you decided not to marry?"

"Hum, hum," Emma nodded haughtily, "I would rather be an old maid than a fool-in-love!"

Mr. Knightley chuckled.

"You do not believe me, Mr. Knightley?" she put her hands on her hips; the young lady was not pleased with the gentleman.

"Oh, I believe you, Emma – that is until you change your mind. And we know how _often_ you change your mind!" teased Mr. Knightley, dancing in his eyes.

"Mr. Knightley," protested Emma, "I am determined not to marry! Why would I wish for a husband when I have everything I need? I have Papa, Miss Taylor, and _you_ - that is as long as you shall not marry! And now..." she suddenly remembered, "I even have a new friend - nothing shall induce me to matrimony with any man!"

Mr. Knightley continued to be amused, nodding and humming as he listened.

"Besides," Emma's voice suddenly turned very solemn, "I cannot leave Papa..." she seemed in deep reflection, "Isabella has removed to London, I am all Papa has left! If I ever married, I must be removed as well, Papa will be very lonely and sad... I cannot bear to see Papa sad!"

Mr. Knightley spoke very kindly to Emma, "I think _that_ is the real reason why you decided to never marry."

Emma smiled up at him softly.

"I have always admired how much you love your father, my dear Emma!" said Mr. Knightley, with the deepest sincerity and warmest regards.

"But," she did not forget, "do not you need an heir for Donwell, Mr. Knightley?" Emma asked warily of the gentleman.

Mr. Knightley replied, giving his young friend a knowing grin, "Emma, have you forgotten our little nephew, Henry?"

"Henry..." her eyes sparkled brightly and her angelic face lit up, "Of course! Henry shall be your heir for Donwell!"

Mr. Knightley nodded - his face broke into a smile that was as bright as Emma's.

Once again, the fourteen-year-old saw the dimples on her friend's face, but instead of finding them dreadfully provoking, Emma decided that, after all, she liked dimples very, very much!

* * *

**A/N:** When you feel helpless or frustrated, do you sometimes take it out on the person(s) who's closest and dearest to you? Ah! Emma is not the only one then! We can't honestly expect a fourteen-year-old to be able to decipher her feelings from hearing the ladies speaking of her most esteemed Mr. Knightley in such vulgar ways and handle her shock calmly, can we? And when our dear heroine got all vexed by her own imagination... she reacted in the only way she knew how - thus the reason for this chapter! I enjoyed visualizing Emma's brooding and her interaction with Mr. Knightley, as well as the gentleman's own reaction to his fanciful friend, very much; couldn't help but imagine how this type of conversations happening again in their married years! ;D

Thank you so much again for reading! :D


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

* * *

It was a beautiful autumn morning; Highbury and Donwell were dressed in their glorious autumn shades – orange, brown, red, yellow, buttery gold, and hues of scarlet draped thoroughly over the landscape. And it was also a perfect morning for an outing and a visit at the Andertons. Ever since Mr. Anderton's good name was restored and that he had become the spademan and hedger at the Donwell home-farm, Emma and Miss Taylor were always met with the warmest domestic scenery at the Anderton's humble cottage whenever they visited.

While Miss Taylor and Mrs. Anderton chattered, five-month-old baby Ella was cooing, smiling, drooling and bounding happily on her mama's lap. Whereas Agnes was feeding their increasing chicken population contentedly at the back of their cottage in the poultry yard, Tess, Agnes's younger sister, Nicolas, their little brother, and Emma were playing hopscotch by the side of the house.

It was Tess's turn to hop; Emma and Nicolas stood on the side watching happily and waited patiently for their turns.

Nicolas suddenly tugged at Emma's elbow, the little five-year-old asked, "Are you coming tonight?"

Looking down at Nicolas kindly, Emma smiled, "You mean to the Donwell Harvest Supper?"

The five-year-old shook his head; he lowered his voice as if speaking secrets, "To _ghost-hunting_!"

Emma's eyes instantly widened, "To _ghost-hunting_?" she blurted aloud.

Nicolas nodded. "We are going tonight..." the little boy whispered, unwilling to let the ghostly spirits (if there was any) in on their little secret.

Tess heard Emma. "_Shhh_ – Nicolas!" she hushed.

Still in her wide-eye, Emma turned to Tess and asked, "You are going ghost-hunting _tonight_?"

"Ah... yes... but... Agnes told us not to breathe a word of it to you..." Tess replied hesitantly.

"But _why_?" asked Emma, feeling surprised.

"Ah... she said that... if you knew... you would sure wish to go..." imparted the eleven-year-old with guilt.

_Agnes was certainly right!_ Emma thought to herself. Of course she would wish to go - she would give anything to go on an adventure like this. But why should Agnes keep this from her?

"Oh, Tess," said the cunning Emma, in her most delightful voice, wearing the sweetest innocent smile, "Agnes must be funning with you! Surely she would not deny my wish to go... ah... where are you going ghost-hunting tonight?"

Feeling relieved by Emma's words, Tess replied excitedly, "We are going to the abandoned brewery on the edge of town!"

"Tess!" Agnes's voice suddenly broke in, rushing to their side, "I told you not to breathe a word to Emma!"

"Ah... Agnes..." the small voice of the eleven-year-old stumbled.

"Agnes!" Emma interjected, "It was not Tess's fault!" wrapping Tess in her protective arms, "I coaxed her into telling me!" She looked Agnes in the eyes, "But why would you not wish me to know?"

"Do you wish to come?" asked Agnes.

"Of course I wish to come!" replied Emma, with great anticipation.

"See - _this_ is why! I knew you would wish to come, but your papa would not approve, Emma!"

Emma frowned, "Ah... how... how do you know?"

"Of course I know, and you know it very well yourself! Mr. Woodhouse would never allow you going to an abandoned brewery at night!"

"But... but... surely you would not deny me of going, Agnes..." Emma began to plead desperately, "I have never, _ever_, been on any adventure in my entire life, this sounds like the most exciting thing I would ever do... Pray, Agnes... you must let me come along tonight!"

"But, your papa would not approve, Emma, I cannot let you come!" the fifteen-year-old was determined.

While other children in Highbury lived and breathed adventures almost daily, the confined Hartfield Mistress could only picture them in her mind. Ever since she was a child, it had been Emma's dream to go on a real adventure. Though Mr. Knightley had said in the past that there were no ghosts at the abandoned brewery, the noises that people had heard in the summer nights merely came from the gypsies passing the area camping near the site, yet, the idea of venturing in a ruined house at night, looking for Heaven knew what, was too exciting to pass - especially when it might be the only opportunity for a real life adventure that the fourteen-year-old shall ever come across!

Emma turned to the two younger children for allies, "Tess and Nicolas, do you think Agnes should let me go ghost-hunting with you tonight?"

Agnes stared at her younger siblings while they looked each other in the eyes, seemingly coming to a conclusion of their own. The two youngsters nodded enthusiastically.

Emma was ecstatic! She rushed to the two children, embracing them and kissing them on their foreheads, squealing, "Oh! Thank you Tess, thank you Nicolas! You two are the most generous children ever lived!"

Smiling winningly, Emma turned to Agnes and declared saucily, "It is three against one, Agnes! The majority prevails. You must let me come tonight!"

Agnes scowled at Tess and Nicolas and grudged, "_Traitors_!" She then shifted her gaze and spoke to Emma authoritatively, "Their opinions do not count! I am the eldest, I shall decide, and my decision is that you may not come!"

The fourteen-year-old grew cross, throwing her arms up, she cried, "This is unjust! How could you be so unkind of not letting me come with you, Agnes? Even Tess and Nicolas wish me to come... I _never_, _ever_, get to do anything remotely exciting... and here you are, going on a wonderful adventure without your friend! Do you mean to tell me that your conscience shall let you enjoy ghost-hunting tonight while leaving your _poor_ friend sad and lonely all to herself? Do you really mean to be so _cruel_?"

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, Agnes covered her ears with both hands, ignoring her friend's incessant complaints.

In the midst of her fruitless whining, clever Emma's mind took a swift churn and a bright notion came. Her complaints ceased.

"Aha! _So - _I cannot go ghost-hunting with you because _my_ Papa would not let me?" she narrowed her eyes at Agnes, "Well, this is _masterfully_ hypocritical of you! What about _us_ being friends, Agnes? Did _your_ papa approve of you befriending a rich girl?" demanded the young Hartfield Mistress.

Emma's scheme seemed to work - her challenge had turned Agnes's pale face red!

Helplessly, Agnes glared at her fanciful friend. "_Arrrgh_!" the peasant girl growled, succumbing to the rich girl's argument, "_Fine_! You may come along tonight!"

The three youngsters, Emma, Tess and Nicolas, clapped and rejoiced! Cheerfully, they linked their hands, dancing and singing in circles.

"_Ring-a-ring-a-ghosies,  
__Pocket full of ghosies;  
__Hush! Hush! Hush! Hush!  
__We're all tumbled down..._."

"But," Emma suddenly paused to speak to Agnes, "what about the Donwell Harvest Supper? It is the most joyful event of the year for all the labourers and their families! Are you not going tonight?"

"We are not going to the supper tonight!" replied Agnes.

"You are not!" Emma was surprised.

"The three of us have no taste for the ale and the noisy crowd, we much rather go on our ghost-hunt!" Agnes said. Tess and Nicolas nodded with might.

"Besides," Agnes added, "Papa dislikes the other farmers ogling at me or any young girls, but he promised to bring us home some roast beef and plum pudding! And _you_?" the fifteen-year-old stared at Emma curiously, "You must not mean to tell me that Mr. Knightley would let the farmers ogling at you!"

Emma blushed. "Oh no, I never go to the supper! Papa worries that it being out of doors I would catch cold; and Mr. Knightley thinks it would not do for me to be in the midst of the crowd, he says the juice of the barrel could sometimes exhilarate their spirits a little too high! But he would let me watch them from the terrace at the Abbey, for I have always found their spirited singing and dancing amusing, especially during the ceremony of drinking health, when they sing health-drinking to the master in glee! It is wonderful to see them so cheerful, as they have worked so hard during the harvest and all year round!"

"But you cannot come with us if you wish to watch them celebrate," said Agnes.

"I know... I shall miss their joyful celebration this year!" Emma replied, with a hint of disappointment.

"And how do you plan on telling your papa and Mr. Knightley that you are going to ghost-hunting with us tonight?" asked Agnes concernedly.

"Ah..." Emma wrinkled her brows, murmuring wistfully, "... I shall find a way..."

* * *

Next to the glowing hearth, in the plush wingback armchair, sat the old Hartfield Master, who, as he always did in the afternoons, had been dozing soundly for the past two hours. Emma had taken a seat quietly on the sofa watching Mr. Woodhouse in slumbers. She folded her delicate hands anxiously on her lap, waiting for the opportunity to ask for her father's approval to go on her much anticipated adventure that evening.

With a thunderous snort and a sudden dip of his head, the old father was beginning to awake. In very slow motion, he lifted his head, opening his blurry eyes to find his beloved youngest daughter smiling sweetly at him.

Mr. Woodhouse's face broke into the kindest fatherly smile, struggling to sit straight, in a half-waking voice he spoke to his daughter, "Emma my dear, how long have you been watching Papa sleep?"

Emma immediately rose from the sofa, went to her father's side attending to him and adjusting the pillow behind his back for him to sit up comfortably.

"Only a quarter of an hour, Papa," replied Emma lovingly, taking the closest seat to her father on the sofa.

"Humph... did Papa snore?" the old father asked sheepishly.

A lovely giggle slipped out of Emma, speaking most affectionately, "Of course, Papa! You always snore when you sleep!" her eyes lit up tenderly, "But that is the best part of your nap, Papa! For it could only mean that you must be having a restful sleep, which is most paramount to your health, and what's more, it always brings you bright eyes and smiles when you awake!"

The beloved daughter really knew how to warm her father's heart! Mr. Woodhouse's smiles and eyes were indeed brightened.

"And why were you sitting here so quietly, my sweet child? You are often out visiting Mr. Knightley or Miss Anderton in the afternoons, are you not feeling well today?"

"I am very well, Papa!" assured Emma. "Miss Taylor and I visited the Andertons this morning, and Mr. Knightley and everyone at Donwell are up to their ears preparing for the Harvest Supper tonight, I thought I must not get in their way."

"Ah! Yes, tonight is the Donwell Harvest Supper...it is that time of the year already! A marvellous time for the reapers; I am sure!" exclaimed Mr. Woodhouse.

Flashes of his childhood suddenly captured his mind; a boy-like smile gradually seeped out of the old gentleman's wrinkled-face.

Amused by the childlike expression on her father's face, Emma asked, "What are you thinking, Papa?"

"Oh, just something that Nurse told Papa when I was a boy!" The smile was still on the father's face.

"Do tell, Papa! What did Nurse tell you?"

Looking at his daughter with luminous eyes, Mr. Woodhouse recalled, "Nurse used to tell me all sorts of customs that happened on the last day of harvest. And one of my favourites was the '_Crying of the Mare'_..."

"What was it like?" the docile daughter inquired.

"Humph..." blinking rapidly, the old man reminisced, "the reapers would tie together the tops of the last blades of corn, which they called 'mare,' and stand at some distance, throwing their sickles at it; he who cut the knot, had the prize, with acclamations and cheer! After the knot was cut, some reapers then cried with a loud voice three times, '_I have her_!' Others answered just as many times, '_What have you_?' – '_A mare, a mare, a mare_!' Then someone would ask, '_Whose is she_? _Whose is she? Whose is she?_' And the reapers would cheer their master's name three times!"

The old gentleman grew animated, "But that was not it! They then shouted, '_Whither will you send her_?_' _- '_To J. a Nicks'_ or naming some neighbour who had not all his corns reaped. Then they all shouted three times again, and the ceremony would end in good cheer!"

Mr. Woodhouse had never spoken of any of his childhood tales to his daughters before; so Emma was immensely delighted to hear even an inkling of it. She asked excitedly, "Did you ever see the ceremony in person, Papa?"

"Oh, no! I needed not see them in person, I had Nurse to tell me the tales!" replied Mr. Woodhouse.

"But, would not you wish to see the amusing scenes with your own eyes?" curious Emma asked.

"Emma my dear," Mr. Woodhouse grinned smugly, "why would Papa wish to see them when I could _hear_ them from Nurse in the comfort of my own house? Are not seeing and hearing all the same?"

Emma nodded softly – how different she and her father were? Where her papa could be easily contended from merely hearing the tales, she would not be satisfied until she could see them herself.

Yet, she wondered, had her father ever a desire to do something out of ordinary or outrages in his childhood days? She had to ask.

"But, Papa – have you ever, _ever_, wished to do anything, anything unlike yourself when you were a child... such as... going on a _ghost-hunt_?" She thought, perhaps, this would also be a perfect opening for her request.

Mr. Woodhouse paused to search his distant memories.

"Has Papa ever told you what happened after your grandmother died, Emma?"

In her big round eyes, Emma replied, "_No_, Papa! What _happened_?"

"It was my seventh year," Mr. Woodhouse began slowly, "Mother and Father had promised me a little brother or sister. It was the happiest time in our family. Everyone in the household was bustled with excitement anticipating the arrival of the infant. But Fate was unkind to us..." Mr. Woodhouse faltered for a brief moment, letting out a long sigh, "The tormenting childbirth took both Mother and my little brother away!"

The graveness in her father's eyes made Emma sad.

"My Father" Mr. Woodhouse continued, "was in so much grief that he went into a decline. Before long, I was sent to live with my aunt's family until Father would be better. Aunt Catherine was a kind lady, much like your grandfather, but her two sons were not..."

Emma breathed; she asked quickly, "Were your cousins disgusting and tedious, Papa?"

Mr. Woodhouse chuckled. "I would not call them disgusting or tedious, but they were very different from Papa."

"In what ways, Papa?" Emma's curiosity was piqued.

"I was seven at the time, and my cousins were ten and thirteen. They were both very lively boys who loved mischief. I supposed being a few years younger and quite different in deposition I had the disadvantage of becoming the aim of their pranks."

Emma did not like the sound of it! She furrowed her brows and asked cautiously, "Were they unkind to you, Papa?"

Mr. Woodhouse nodded slowly, "At times..."

"What did they do to you, Papa?" She was worried.

"Humph... they called me names," the contemplative father said.

"What sort of names, Papa?" Emma questioned.

"All sorts... a Clump, a Numbscull, a Cod's Head..." his gaze was distant.

"That was truly _unkind_ of them!" Emma cried indignantly.

The old father agreed.

"There were times" he went on, "they would hide my spectacles and not give them back even when I begged."

"But you could not see without your spectacles, Papa!" clamoured Emma, outraged by the mean-spirited boys taunting her father.

"Well, as I could not see without them, I kept myself in my chamber for a day-long nap!" the old father smiled, "And when Aunt Catherine came looking for me at supper time, she would make cousins give me back my spectacles and it would all end, you know!"

"And sometimes at breakfast," the old father tried to remember some more, "one of my cousins would crawl under the table, untied my shoelaces, and then tied the two laces together, causing me to fall when I stood and walked."

Emma was aghast! She said resentfully, "Your cousins were horrid, Papa! You are such a gentle soul, how could anyone be so cruel to you?"

Mr. Woodhouse grinned, "But Papa grew cleverer, Emma my dear. After having to fall on my nose for Heaven knows how many times, I began to check my shoelaces before I removed from the breakfast table every morning. You should have seen the shocking look on cousins' faces the morning when they saw their prank failed, my dear!" The old father chuckled as the image of his cousins' dropping their jaws still amused him after all these years.

Her father might be able to laugh at his cousins' cruel pranks, but Emma could not! She grew infuriated at the thought of her papa being bullied by the two nasty boys!

"What else did they do to you, Papa?" the tender-hearted daughter demanded hotly.

"You asked if Papa had ever wished to go on a ghost-hunt?"

Emma nodded, her concerned-eyes narrowed.

"Papa did not have to wish, Emma my dear," Mr. Woodhouse's eyes gleamed, "I was forced to have one!"

"_What_?"

"It was known to everyone at Aunt Catherine's house that there was a ghost in the guest bedchamber. One night, my cousins hid my spectacles and told me that I could only get them back if I would follow them. So I did. They took my hand, led me to the guest chamber, pushed me into it, threw my spectacles at me and locked the door behind them - leaving me in the dark chamber by myself!"

Emma gasped loudly! She instantly went to her father's side, grasping his forearm, speaking furiously, "How could your cousins do that to you, Papa? Those boys were awful... utterly awful!"

Angry tears were welling inside Emma's eyes. She asked urgently, "Were you frightened, Papa? You must be frightened!"

"Oh, I was terrified! I crawled under the bed, shut my eyes and cried until I fell asleep!"

The image of her papa soaked in his own tears in a haunted chamber being humiliated by his cousins was far too much for the loving daughter to bear. Emma threw her arms round her papa's neck and began to sob.

"I _hate_ your cousins, Papa! I _hate_ them!" she cried with passion, "I wish I was there for you, Papa... so they would not be able to bully you... I wish I was there to box their ears..." Emma kept repeating while burying her sobs in her papa's chest.

Pulling his beloved daughter a little away, the old father looked at her and asked, "Why are you crying, my child?"

Emma looked up with large tear drops; she said fervently, "Those boys were mean to you, Papa... I cannot bear the thought of them hurting you... I cannot bear the thought of you hurting at all!"

The old father stroke his daughter's soft cheek tenderly and smiled, "But it happened a very long time ago, Emma my dear! I had almost forgotten all of it if not because you asked, and it was not so very bad!"

"How could you say that it was not so very bad?" Emma asked in disbelief. "What they did to you was _horrible_, Papa, absolutely _horrible_!"

"My mother," Mr. Woodhouse reflected, "that is your grandmother, used to tell Papa that I was a very _special_ boy!" the old man grinned. "She said that I was different from most children, and I was bound to be teased by some mean-spirited children some day. But Mother told me to never forget that no matter how they teased and taunted me, they could never hurt me in the inside," Mr. Woodhouse pointed at his heart, "for as long as I would not let them!

"And your grandmother was right, Emma my dear! My cousins might have called me names that I disliked, caused me to fall on my nose and bruised my forehead, and locked me up in a scary chamber through the night, but they were never able to hurt Papa in the inside -" the old father pointed at his heart again, "not even a tiny bit!" smiling smugly at his daughter.

Emma looked up tenderly at her father, sniffling, she asked, "Did you stay at your Aunt Catherine's house for very long, Papa?"

"Nurse came to visit me one day and found out what was happening with me at Aunt Catherine's. Oh, she was furious! And the following week," Mr. Woodhouse grinned boyishly, "I was packing to return home on my Father's order!"

Emma breathed deeply, blinking her tears away; her sad face broke out a smile of relief. She pressed her papa's hand to her lips and then returned to her seat at the sofa.

For a long moment, the old father and the loving daughter sat wordlessly, comforting each other in silence. Another moment later, Emma thought - perhaps it was time to resume to her task at hand.

"Papa... what would you say if I go on a ghost-hunt tonight?" she asked bravely.

"Emma my dear," there was a look of surprise on the father's face, "you know there is no such thing as ghosts. Papa was trapped in that chamber for an entire night; crying and scaring myself to sleep – but I saw no ghost the whole time when I was there. And when I came out of the haunted room unharmed in the morning, everyone in the house thought I was the bravest child ever lived!" The old father was amused, chuckling at himself.

"_But_... _but_... Papa... just because you saw no ghost that night does not reduce the anticipation and excitement of a ghost-hunt!" appealed Emma, anxiously, "And if I wish to go ghost-hunting, surely you would not deny my wish, would you?"

The old father shook his head dismissively, "Emma my dear, there is certainly no excitement of any sorts in ghost-hunting, even if there were ghosts. Papa was locked up in that dreadful chamber for a whole night, and I can assure you that the so-called excitement is nonsense!"

"But... Papa... you were trapped there against you will! Whereas, if I go on a ghost-hunt, it would be for the pure amusement of such an adventure! Think of the excitement, Papa, of going to a ruined house in the night, having no notion of what to expect, even if there were no ghost, there ought to be some unknown creatures lurking around waiting for someone to discover them... would not it be the greatest amusement in the world to children of all ages?"

Mr. Woodhouse frowned disapprovingly. "Having no notion of what to expect sounds like the most awful thing in the world to me, my dear, how could you call that an excitement? I was a child once and nothing could entice me to go ghost-hunting! Anyone would agree that remaining at home next to a glowing fire eating gruel is far more amusing than going out of doors at night. Besides, it is dreadfully cold after nightfall - you could catch your death venturing out to anywhere, let alone some ruined houses. Now," the father ordered, "put that thought out of your mind!"

Once the old gentleman finished speaking, Kate had entered in with the gate leg table, and Miss Taylor came to attend her master. Mr. Woodhouse smiled happily, "Oh, here is my paper and gruel!" Rather than devoting his attention to his daughter, the old father shifted his focus entirely to his afternoon ritual.

_What was she thinking?_ Emma asked herself. Was it not silly of her to hope that her father would share her sentiment for adventures? Was not it wishful thinking to believe that her father would let her go to a ruined house at night, or anytime? And she fooled herself into asking him regardless - what a foolish girl she was! Though it was a feeling that was not unfamiliar to Emma, the heavy pang of disappointment was still too difficult for her heart to bear. She removed herself from the sofa giving way to the gate leg table that Kate was unfolding, went standing by the window, staring out at the placid scenery which she had seen a thousand times.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! :-)


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

* * *

Ten minutes later, Mr. Knightley walked into the Hartfield drawing-room. The gentleman took his bows, exchanged several warm words with Mr. Woodhouse, inviting the old friend to the Abbey to watch the celebration at the Donwell Harvest Supper with his daughter. As expected, Mr. Woodhouse thanked and declined Mr. Knightley's kind invitation, for the old gentleman infinitely preferred a quiet evening in the comfort of his own home next to his glowing hearth.

Unaware of what had transpired between the old father and his young daughter only minutes ago, Mr. Knightley walked over to the window and asked Emma smilingly, "Are you coming at the same time, Emma? I have asked Mrs. Hodges to place extra hot-bricks on the terrace to keep you warm, as the weather has been unseasonably cold these past several nights."

"Oh..." Emma looked up at Mr. Knightley uneasily, "...ah... that is very thoughtful of you, Mr. Knightley... but... ah... but..." she stalled distractedly.

Her father had already denied her wish to go to the ghost-hunt, so what was Emma stalling for? Only if her desire to go on the adventure had vanished with the hope of her papa's approval, it would have been easy to answer Mr. Knightley's question.

Mr. Knightley was puzzled by Emma's mumbling. "I know how much you love watching the reapers' singing and dancing, you are coming, are you not, Emma?" he asked again.

If it was any other year, Emma would not have missed the joyful event at Donwell for the world, but, today, more than anything in the world, she wished to taste a real life adventure. Rather than giving in to her father's order as she had done numerous times before, as much as she disliked being deceitful, the fourteen-year-old decided to find a way to make her wish come true.

She feigned a sneeze and a sniffle, and in a weak voice she replied, "I... I do not think I am well enough to go to the Supper, Mr. Knightley..." feeling the guilt mounting inside her, Emma looked down at her wrung fingers, nervously avoiding Mr. Knightley's eyes.

"Are you unwell, Emma?" the gentleman asked, feeling quite bewildered, "You were very well only this morning..."

Mr. Woodhouse might not have heard his daughter's sudden malady, but Miss Taylor had caught the sound of her charge's sneeze. The governess immediately came over and took Emma's hands into hers; she asked concernedly, "Are you unwell, Emma?"

"Ah..." her guilt-ridden heart pounding at her chest, Emma went into a small panic, "ah... just... just a little chill..." she muttered in an unsteady voice.

"But your hands feel warm to me, my dear..." the governess examined her charge's colour, "Your cheeks look fine too..." lifting one hand to feel Emma's forehead, "and your forehead feels fine as well..." Miss Taylor was quite at a loss, "...and you were very well all morning long! You have been looking forward to the Harvest Supper for an entire week, Emma, are you sure you cannot go tonight?" Miss Taylor's confused eyes looked into Emma's uneasy ones searching for a response.

Emma quickly withdrew her hands from Miss Taylor's, replying hastily, "My hands and forehead may be fine, but I am shivering all over!" Unable to meet Miss Taylor's eyes, she wrapped her shawl round her person as tightly as possible.

When it came to Emma's mischief, Mr. Knightley seemed to possess the senses of a hound. His senses were hard at work at the moment, and his mind churning for the possible reasons why Emma would not wish to go to the Harvest Supper – but he could not find one!

"Are you certain you have a chill, Emma?" the gentleman wanted to be sure, "You had never missed the Donwell Harvest Supper for any reason before..."

"Of course I am certain!" Emma cut off Mr. Knightley curtly. Averting her face from her two interrogators, she said defensively, "Why cannot you believe that I am not well enough to go to the Supper tonight? I have a chill and it is _all_ that matters!"

The fourteen-year-old stalked out of the drawing-room without looking back, leaving Mr. Knightley and Miss Taylor staring at each other with concerns.

* * *

Emma shut the bedchamber door behind her and dropped onto her bed, tears of frustration came streaming down her cheeks. A mixture of emotions had overwhelmed the fourteen-year-old. The immense guilt that flooded her heart from lying to Mr. Knightley and Miss Taylor, and stalking out of their sight so impertinently had certainly made up a big part of those emotions, but, perhaps, an even bigger part of it was – that she was ashamed of herself for feeling that the world was unjust to her!

How could the world be unjust to her when she had so much? She had her father, Miss Taylor, Mr. Knightley, and... Hartfield! Yet – how could it be that something other children could participate so freely, she had to lie in order to be able to do? All her life she catered to her father's unusual depositions, loving him, caring for him with all her heart, willingly subjecting herself to his fretting over the countless things that wrinkled his nerves, keeping her from doing most things that were commonplace to other children. She had thought that she was completely accustomed to the confinement and oblivious to what was imposed upon her, then why was her disappointment so insufferable when her father denied her wish for the ghost-hunt tonight?

She heard a gentle tap on the door.

"Who is it?" she asked – not because she did not know who it was, but because she needed the time to wipe the tears off her face.

"It's Miss Taylor, Emma," replied the muffled voice.

"Come in..."

The door opened silently, and came in the kind governess.

Emma had laid herself sideway on the bed, hugging her pillow, purposely facing away from anyone who entered in. Miss Taylor walked in and sat down quietly on the other side of the bed.

"Is everything well, my dearest Emma?" the governess asked ever so gently, leaning forward and placing a tender hand on her charge's shoulder.

Emma would not turn round, and she would not say anything – she only shook her head.

"You do not wish to go to Mr. Knightley's Harvest Supper tonight?"Miss Taylor asked kindly.

With shame and guilt flooding her heart, and her back still facing Miss Taylor, Emma shook her head again.

Miss Taylor stroke Emma's long curls gently, tenderly swiping them away from her cheeks; she beckoned tenderly, "Would you like to talk about it, Emma?"

For the third time, Emma shook her head silently, willing to keep her frustration only to herself.

Miss Taylor understood – she knew very well that Emma meant it when she said she would not wish to talk about it, for the governess had known Emma to be a brave, strong child since the day little Emma became her charge – in her own special ways, Emma was always able to cope with her emotions without disturbance.

Miss Taylor had come to the Woodhouses only a week after Mrs. Woodhouse passed away. While the beloved Hartfield Mistress was stricken with illness, the loving mother had the wish of finding the perfect governess to fill the most important office at Hartfield. Many credentials, recommendations, and replies for her advertisements were received, but Miss Taylor's application stood out, and Mrs. Woodhouse had chosen to correspond with the applicant.

Through her tireless correspondences with Miss Taylor, Mrs. Woodhouse had discovered the governess's many virtues that touched her heart. The loving wife and mother realized that Miss Taylor's extraordinary patience and kindness were the very qualities that would be required of the Hartfield governess in order to cope with her husband's unusual, and, perhaps to most people, tedious nature; she also reckoned that Miss Taylor's steady temperament and excellent achievements in art and music would help her mild and meek Isabella to become an accomplished young lady and prepare her to be the proud wife of any gentleman.

But the dying mother's heart ached at the thought of leaving her precious little angel without her mother's love and guidance. Mrs. Woodhouse prayed to be able to find someone who would be gentle and tender to her little Emma, someone whose principled-nature could lead her lively and mischievous child onto the right path, someone with a superior mind to match her daughter's innate cleverness, to be her intellectual companion as she grew, and most importantly, someone who would love her precious child just as she would love her very own.

The stricken-mother thanked Heaven for answering her desperate prayers – she knew she could not have found a more superior governess to take the most important office at Hartfield than Miss Taylor. In her deathbed, Mrs. Woodhouse wrote to offer Miss Taylor the governess position, but unfortunately, her time parting the world came before Miss Taylor was able to extricate herself from her previous engagement.

Miss Taylor could never forget the scene that she saw when, for the very first time, she walked into the Hartfield drawing-room on the first day of her employment...

_Everyone was dressed in their mourning attires, a girl of perhaps eleven or twelve, was sitting on the sofa, her eyes and nose were red, holding a doll with one hand, and wiping her tears with the other; an older, very grave and distraught looking gentleman, with disarrayed hair and a loose neck cloth, was slumping deeply in a wingback armchair staring emptily into the dimly lit hearth _– _But _– _next to the gentleman, stood, even in her sombre black dress, the most adorable little girl the governess had ever seen! _

_The little girl could not be more than four or five years of age, with the palms of her tiny hands, the precious child smoothed the gentleman's grey hair lovingly, her little fingers ran down the gentleman's waistcoat fastening meticulously its buttons before straightening the cloth round his neck, all the while saying tenderly to him, "Do not be sad, Papa... Mr. Knightley said Mama had gone to Heaven, he said Heaven was the most wonderful place! Mama is very happy now, she is surrounded by angels, Papa, dancing and singing beautifully! And she does not hurt anymore; nothing could make Mama sick again... Pray, do not be sad, Papa!"_

_When the little girl looked up and saw the stranger standing in the middle of the drawing-room, she came over and looked up at the stranger with her round hazel eyes, her sweet little voice spoke to the stranger, "We have been expecting you, Miss Taylor!"_

_"You must be Emma!" The stranger knelt down to greet the precious child._

_"Hum, hum," little Emma turned and pointed at the older gentleman, "he is my Papa, you may call him Mr. Woodhouse, and she" pointing at the girl on the sofa, "is my sister Isabella. I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Taylor!"_

_Little Emma curtsied gracefully._

_"It is my greatest pleasure to meet you, my dear Emma!" Removing her gloves, Miss Taylor reached out her hand to stroke the sweet child's curls, smiling at her most tenderly. Little Emma smiled in return, even though there was deep sadness in her eyes, and her adorable plumped-cheeks had no doubt sunken, the sparkles in those beautiful hazel eyes shone like the North Star in the celestial sky._

_"Mama said that you would sing to me... she always sang me to sleep at bedtime..." the heaves in the precious child caused her small chest to rise and fall heavily, her pretty little nose had turned bright red, blinking away her tears, she continued softly, "I cannot sleep without being sung to... Miss Taylor... would you sing to me tonight?" little Emma beckoned politely._

_Miss Taylor took hold of little Emma's hands and clasped them to her heart, tender tears were filling up her eyes. "I would love to sing to you at bedtime or anytime you wish, my dearest Emma!" Not even two minutes into their acquaintance, Miss Taylor's heart was already captured._

_But when the clock suddenly chimed, little Emma jumped, she gasped, "It is time for Papa's gruel!" she said hurriedly, "Mama had everything arranged... Betsy will take you to your chamber, which is the one next to mine. Supper will be served in two hours. You must be fatigued after your long journey, you should go refresh yourself!" _

_Little Emma entreated her new governess to follow her maid, but Miss Taylor asked her new charge curiously, "Should not I first speak with Mr. Woodhouse, and perhaps Isabella before retreating to my bedchamber?"_

_The little mistress shook her head, lowering her already small voice before she would speak, "Shhhh!" placing a tiny finger on her rosebud lips, turning to look at her father, and turned back, "Papa does not wish to speak at the moment; you shall meet him at supper. Isabella has been very sad and quiet the last few days... perhaps if you would read to us after supper like Mama used to, it might cheer her up a little... but pray, do not be late for supper, Papa does not like it! Go on... pray!"_

_And the precious child immediately returned to her father's side._

_From that very moment, Miss Taylor had no doubt that one day this brave, strong little girl would turn into one very fine young lady! _

But at this present moment, it broke Miss Taylor's heart to see her sweet charge's disheartened countenance, nevertheless, the governess respected Emma's wishes, giving the space that the fourteen-year-old needed to smooth the wrinkles in her heart, she asked very kindly, "Would you like supper be brought to you in your chamber, my dearest Emma?"

Silence came upon the next moment.

But in the moment after, Emma took a deep breath – she sat up at last, willing to look at Miss Taylor with her soft eyes, she shook her head and said collectedly, "Papa would worry if he does not see me at supper, I shall change and be down in half an hour."

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you so much for reading!


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

* * *

Supper at Hartfield was successfully passed. Emma had struck the delicate balance between not being too subdued to stir her father's anxiety and not too animated to rouse Miss Taylor's suspicion when she excused herself from the dining-room under the pretence of being fatigued wishing to retire early.

Two pillows were placed under a mound of blankets, and the ruffles of her nightcap were carefully left uncovered on her pillow to give the impression that the owner of the cap was deep in her slumbers. Though the disguise beneath the covers lacked the hypnotic rhythm of her quiet breathings, with the curtains drawn making the chamber pitch dark, it was impossible for anyone to notice that the fourteen-year-old was not in her bed.

As agreed upon, the Anderton children were waiting on Willow's Lane outside the Thompson Farm at dusk. As soon as they saw Emma approaching, the whole clan bounded in excitement.

Agnes exclaimed when Emma arrived, most surprisingly, "I _cannot_ believe Mr. Woodhouse indeed let you come!"

No words came from Emma, but her unhappy stares had enlightened her friend.

"_Oh_..." Agnes realized that she had made a mistake, "You sneaked out from the side door by the kitchen, did not you?" she asked hesitantly, all her excitement had vanished.

With a deep frown and a heart full of guilt the fourteen-year-old nodded.

"Did not go well with your papa, huh?" Agnes asked sympathetically.

"No..." Emma let out a quiet reply, "I shall like it if we do not speak of it..."

Agnes shrugged and obliged.

"I am glad you are coming with us, Emma!" tugging at her elbow, little Nicolas looked up at Emma with a big innocent smile.

"Me too!" Tess chimed in animatedly, sharing every bit of her younger brother's sentiment.

Emma bent and gave Nicolas and Tess the kindest, though strained, smile, and she said sincerely to them both, "Thank you Nicolas, thank you Tess, I am glad to have come as well!"

* * *

The four of them, Agnes, Emma, Tess and Nicolas, jaunted down broad lanes and narrow paths, passed by quiet streams and rushing rivers, tripped through rustling woods and harvested fields, breathing in the autumn's crisp night air, bathing in the luminous inviting moon glow. Nothing, not even nettle stings and thorn bush pricks, could dampen the jubilant spirits of this motley gang – they laughed, they sang, they skipped, they chanted throughout their journey all the way to the edge of town. It was when they were approaching their most anticipated destination that Agnes began to speak in a low and mysterious voice.

"It happened in the small hours of the night... just like..." she paused, then whispered, "..._tonight_!"

The rest of the gang went completely silent; their jaunty pace suddenly slowed down to a crawl.

"_What... what... happened_?" Tess asked, chills creeping down her spine.

"The vats in the brewery began to burst!" Three pairs of big round eyes stared at the storyteller. "The beer had been fermenting for months in the large wooden vats, but the metal loops round the vats snapped, and _hundreds_ and _hundreds_ of gallons of beer came gushing out!"

The audiences gasped.

"The family of four who owned the brewery inhabited the basement at night were sleeping and snoring soundly when the flash flood of beer came rushing in the small space!"

"Oh no!" Tess and Nicolas cried out together.

"Did they drown?" asked Tess.

Agnes gave a solemn nod.

"But that is untrue!" Emma interjected, noting the inaccuracies and exaggerations in Agnes's tale in her mind, she added, "Mr. Knightley said nobody was hurt in the incidence!"

The storyteller hastily hushed the spoiler of her tale, "Sure they did!" She quickly dismissed the interruption and turned to Nicolas, "Did you know the name of the family's five-year-old boy?"

Little Nicolas shook his head with bewildered eyes.

"_Nicky_ – his name was _Nicky_!" Agnes's grey eyes looked sharply into Nicolas's.

Poor Nicolas froze.

"And" now the storyteller aimed her frightening stare at her sister, "did you know the name of their eleven-year-old daughter?"

Tess gulped and stammered, "Ah... could... could it be... _T-__Tess_?"

"_Tessa_!" Agnes revealed wickedly, "Her name was _Tessa_!"

The eleven-year-old shrank.

"That night" the storyteller continued, "with beer reaching up to their chins, Nicky and Tessa cried out, '_...help... __help, __could someone help us... __pray_... _help us..._'"

By now, Tess and Nicolas had clung to each other like shipwrecked seamen clutching to their sinking ship. In spite of fears spilling from their eyes and ears, they would not stop beckoning the storyteller, "_What_... _what_ happened? Did someone help them?"

Agnes shook her head mournfully. "They kept crying and crying, their voices got weaker and weaker..." the storyteller's voice grew weaker with her tale, "...and eventually... there came no more sound from them..."

Right when tears were welling up the two children's eyes...

"_BOOM_!" in a thunderous voice the storyteller suddenly bellowed, and the children shook. "More vats exploded and the entire brewery, basement and all, was flooding with ale; the whole family, mama, papa, Tessa and Nicky all died that night... _BUT_..." the storyteller suspended.

"_What_... _what__, Agnes_?" the two trembling children begged.

"_No_ – _one_ –" the storyteller drawled, "_found_ – _their_ – _bodies_!"

_GASPED_! Tess and Nicolas heaved aloud – only that Emma was unmoved, her eyes narrowed.

"Rumour has it" Agnes went on, "that the family loved their brewery so much that their spirits could not part with the place. It was said that the spirits buried their own dead bodies _somewhere_ in the ground, but no one knows _where_! Since then many villagers have seen ghosts roaming round the brewery at night looking for trespassers like – _YOU_!"

Tess and Nicolas staggered.

"_What_..." Tess's very small voice squeaked, "_What_... would the ghosts do to the _trespassers_, Agnes?"

Agnes lifted the lantern next to her head deliberately pulling a monstrous face, and said morbidly, "They _SLIT_ their throats and _HANG_ their bodies on the gallows trees!"

The two children trembled visibly!

The storyteller suddenly looked up and pointed at the tree tops, "_LOOK_! Can you see dead bodies on the gallows?"

Tess and Nicolas looked up frantically searching for dead bodies.

"_LOOK DOWN_!" Agnes shouted, "They are _COMING_ out of the ground – reaching for your _FEET_!"

Tess and Nicolas immediately shifted their fearful eyes to their feet, yelping and jumping off the ground like they were stepping on burning coal in bare feet; the poor children were running round screaming like mad while Agnes launched into hysterical laughter, throwing herself forth and back, before falling into a small coughing fit.

"Stop, Agnes!" Emma demanded hurriedly, "You are frightening them!"

Emma quickly ran to gather Tess and Nicolas in her arms, rubbing their shoulders and faces tenderly, reassuring them with a soothing voice, "Mr. Knightley said nobody was hurt in the flood! The family had little money to repair the ruined brewery, they moved away to stay with their relatives outside of Highbury and never moved back. That was all, pray do not be frightened!"

Recovering from her coughing fit, Agnes interposed, "But, Emma!" doing little to suppress her amusement, "Tess and Nicolas _love_ being scared!" turning to her siblings, she asked with lingering laughter, "Do the two of you love being frightened by scary tales?"

The two children nodded and grinned with unsurpassed enthusiasm!

"Do not you understand, Emma?" Agnes turned back to ask her friend, "Getting scared is the best part of a ghost-hunt; it is the whole point of the adventure! Have not you _ever_ been to a ghost-hunt before?"

Emma looked at Agnes ruefully – she shook her head.

"_Huh_..." The truth had just dawned on the peasant girl. Agnes's amused face turned sheepish, "Ah... sorry... I... I forgot that your papa would not let you..."

"But there is first time to everything!" Emma declared mischievously. It sure did not take long for the young Hartfield Mistress to rid her rueful face and turned it into a big rascally grin. She let go of the two children from her embrace and eagerly began her own mysterious antics.

"Two years after the beer flood," she said lowly, "a man named Captain Billy came to Highbury, he had lived on a ship most of his life, but lost his left hand to the sea and was casted off by his shipmates. Captain Billy had not a single shilling in his pocket, but only a hook as his hand; though he begged for lodging, no one would take him in... He wandered and wandered the whole night until he reached the edge of town – the ruined brewery, on a night when the moon was full and the air biting into his skin... just like... _tonight_..."

The two children, Tess and Nicolas, began to clutch to each other and shrink, but their timorous stares never left the storyteller's spine-tingling narrowed-eyes.

"And when he came close to the ruined brewery, in this very same spot, the _spirits_, who had been guarding their sacred dwelling – _SEIZED_ – him from below, grabbing his feet and pulling him into the _ground_!"

Right at the very moment, Emma's culprit Agnes grabbed the ankles of Tess and Nicolas tight, causing the two children to scream from their lungs and struggle to loosen her holds.

"Captain Billy" Emma cried out wickedly, "became one of the spirits and began to guard the place like his own from trespassers like – _YOU_!"

"_TESS_!" Emma shouted, "Captain Billy is _BEHIND_ you! _NICOLAS_, he is at your back with his _HOOK_! _Run_, children, _RUN_!"

While Tess and Nicolas were screaming from their lungs and running for their lives, Agnes, who had been chasing the children with a fallen tree branch scaring the lives and wild giggles out of the two, was laughing so hard that she could barely breath, and Emma, the crowned new adventurer in Highbury, was watching on the side with tears of joy running down her rosy cheeks, hugging her stomach tightly to herself, for she feared that her uncontrollable laughter was about to burst open her stomach before the night's end!

* * *

Hours before dusk set in, when the troops of villagers congregated together, cheering for the last harvest load coming from the furthest field. Women and children, adorned with cowslips and boughs of leaves, were placed on the load, horses were urged forward, and the procession came full gallop to the front of the Harvest Home, the Donwell farm-house, where the before happy party, composed of the men, women and children of the reapers' families, neighbours and friends, and the Master of Donwell, his bailiff, his Abbey's staffs, who had laboured for days preparing for the most joyful occasion of the year, were waiting to welcome home that last load.

And when the last harvest load arrived, the reaper with the loudest and clearest voice shouted:

_We have ploughed, we have sowed,  
__We have reaped, we have mowed,  
__We have brought home every load,  
__Hip, hip, hip, Harvest home!_

The whole assembly cheered, "_Huzzah_! _Huzzah_! _HUZZAH_!"

* * *

The hour of the event had arrived, the men had put on their clean white frocks and boys greased their shoes to look smart, the women and girls were in their richest garments. They had all come to Donwell Abbey to partake the Harvest Supper, the tradition of Donwell for generations, where the Master of Donwell bestowed upon his toiling labourers and their families a lavish meal of hot cake, roast beef, syllabub, gooseberry wine, plum pudding, and all the ale the crowd wished to devour.

The grand feast was out of doors, long tables were spread across the extensive Abbey ground, foaming nappy ale was accompanied by the lily taper tube and weed of India growth, with mirth and jollity abound. And when the juices of the barrel had exhilarated the spirits, the torches were lit, the fiddlers fiddled, a dance was struck up, the stiffness of age and rheumatic pangs forgotten, and those who had passed the grand climacteric, upon their 'light fantastic toes' felt in the midst of their teens!

And when the party were scarcely capable of keeping on their seat by the operation of the ale, the ceremony of drinking health to the master began, in glee or catch, the party hailed:

_Here's a health unto our master,  
__He is the finder of the feast;  
__God bless his endeavours,  
__And send him increase,  
__And send him increase, boys,  
__All in another year!_

Although some landowners found the feast a tiresome duty, and others would only be subjected to a perfunctory appearance at the event, Mr. Knightley heartily appreciated all who toiled for Donwell and he took pride for being amongst those in the lower ranking class. The Donwell Master had sat at every table, hobnobbed with the young, the old and the middling, he gladly sipped wine and ale when bidden, but graciously declined all requests to sing and dance with the crowd.

The splendid hours at the Supper were thoroughly taken pleasure of by the Donwell Abbey Master, the only exception was that he had forgotten that Emma was not on the terrace enjoying the scenery of the crowd singing and dancing, and the ceremony of drinking health; several times he had lifted his eyes searching for the sight of her only to be reminded that she did not come, leaving him wondering what had kept his young friend from the occasion that she had in the past enjoyed so much.

And now, the glow of the torches were fierce, the men and boys formed a circle by taking hold of hands, and one of the party standing in the center, placing a jug of ale near him on the ground, with a horn or tin sort of trumpet in his hand, made a signal, and "_Halloo! __Lar__-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ge-ess_" was given as loud and as long as their lungs would allow, at the same time elevating their hands as high as they could, and still keeping hold – the _Hallooing-Largess_ ritual had begun.

But when the largess was hallooed the second time, Mr. Knightley looked up and saw his constable and an unfamiliar figure trotting onto the Donwell Abbey ground. The Donwell Master slowly, and ponderously, rose from his seat at the table, watching the two horsemen approaching; within half a minute, the constable and the stranger dismounted a small distance away from the crowd. From the rim of his tankard, Joseph, Mr. Knightley's groom, caught sight of the two men riding onto the Abbey ground; he laid down his tankard immediately running over to take the bridles from the two men's hands.

"Good evening, Mr. Knightley," the Donwell constable took off his hat, greeting the magistrate.

"Good evening, Hills," the magistrate returned the greeting, alarmed – judging by the serious expression on the two latecomers, Mr. Knightley knew that the pair had not come for the celebration.

"I am sorry for interrupting your Harvest Supper, Mr. Knightley, but Mr. Oxley, the constable from Epsom, had arrived at my doorsteps an hour ago, wishing to see you," imparted the local constable.

"Good evening, Mr. Knightley," the Epsom constable lifted his hat and bowed respectfully to the magistrate.

"Good evening, Mr. Oxley. I believe most of Epsom is celebrating harvest tonight as well, something unusual must have brought you to Donwell?" asked Mr. Knightley, straight to the point.

"Indeed, sir!" replied Mr. Oxley, "Our magistrate had charged me to bring an urgent letter to you." The Epsom constable handed a sealed letter to Mr. Knightley.

Breaking the seal and unfolding the letter, Mr. Knightley asked, "I trust that Mr. Suter is well?"

"Yes, sir," replied Oxley.

The magistrate felt into silence as he read the missive. Once he finished, carefully folding the letter and placing it in his coat pocket, he looked up – the expression on his face was now as serious as the constables'.

Addressing to the Epsom constable, Mr. Knightley asked, "Is Mr. Suter certain that the two French prisoners had escaped to Highbury? Was there any eye witnesses?"

"No, sir! We had searched throughout Epsom for two full days, could not unearth the two prisoners. Notices were posted all over town rewarding anyone who could produce the whereabouts of the escapees. A farmer had discovered two sets of prisoner uniform, one of them with blood stain on it, in his farm-house earlier today and brought forth the garments to our magistrate. The farm-house was located at the outskirt of Epsom, merely several miles from Highbury, which is why our magistrate believes that the prisoners must have fled to your town, Mr. Knightley!"

"And on our way to Donwell Abbey," Hills interposed, "we had stopped and inquired if anyone had seen strangers since yesterday."

"What did you find out?" the magistrate asked his constable.

"We knocked on the doors of most of the cottages, but almost all households were celebrating at their master's harvest feast!"

"But there ought to be someone still at their home," said Mr. Knightley.

"Yes, we did find several families still at their homes!" Hills replied, "And couple of them said that though they had not seen strangers, they saw smouldering coming out of some distance from their cottages late last night!"

"What buildings or possible hiding places are within the vicinity of those families?" Mr. Knightley pressed.

"There are several ruined old barns to the South of the cottages, and an old farm house and the abandoned brewery are on the North side, sir," supplied Hills.

"Humph," Mr. Knightley considered the intelligence, "as Epsom is to the North of Highbury... we shall begin the search round the areas of the farm house and the abandoned brewery as soon as possible," stated Mr. Knightley.

The Hallooing-Largess ritual just ended, the noise of the crowd eased; the words 'abandoned brewery' coming from his master had caught the attention of Mr. Anderton, who, before the arrival of the constables, was sitting with Mr. Knightley at the table exchanging words pertaining to the ongoing drainage work at the Donwell home-farm.

He stood up abruptly and interjected, "Did you say abandoned brewery, Mr. Knightley? Is something wrong at the place?" Mr. Anderton's anxiety was noticed instantly by the magistrate and the constables.

"Two French prisoners have escaped from Epsom; its magistrate believes they have fled to Highbury. And it is possible that they are hiding in or somewhere close to the abandoned brewery," Mr. Knightley explained.

"No! Oh no! My _children_!" Mr. Anderton cried.

"What happened to your children, Anderton?" asked Mr. Knightley, his eyes began searching for the sight of the Anderton children in the crowd, "Are they not at the Supper tonight?"

"No, Mr. Knightley, they did not come tonight!" Mr. Anderton replied anxiously, "Agnes promised to take the two younger ones for a ghost-hunt adventure at the abandoned brewery instead!"

Mr. Knightley's heart beats thickened, his mind immediately reckoned - _what if the Anderton children ran into the escaped prisoners?_ Then a sudden notion struck him like a lightning bolt – the image of his dear young friend flashed in his mind, he shuddered at himself thinking: _This was why Emma would not come tonight, she must have gone with the Anderton children! What if the prisoners took hold of the children... took hold of her?_

"Mr. Knightley, are you well?" watching the magistrate's face turned white, the local constable asked hurriedly.

"Yes... I am... fine..." collecting himself in two seconds, Mr. Knightley replied. He turned to Oxley, "Did you say there was blood stain on the prisoner uniforms?"

"Yes, sir, there was blood stain on one set of the uniforms. We believe at least one of the prisoners was wounded during the escape, as fresh blood stain was discovered by the opening they used for the escape."

"Hills," turning to the local constable, Mr. Knightley ordered, "we must begin our search immediately, and take the Donwell hounds for the search."

"Mr. Oxley, do you have something of the prisoners that our hounds could sniff?" the magistrate asked.

"Yes, sir, scraps of their garments are in my satchel!" the Epsom constable replied.

"Where is Simon?" Mr. Knightley turned to William Larkins, who saw the gathering of the constables and his master and came over to discover what it was about. He heard the entire exchange.

"He was hallooing largess only minutes ago, sir, still amongst the crowd, I shall go fetch him," said the bailiff.

"Have him bring the hounds out immediately," ordered Mr. Knightley.

"Yes, sir." William Larkins swiftly took off.

"And Larkins," Mr. Knightley's calling halted the bailiff, "Once you find Simon, please stay behind to look after the Supper."

"Certainly, Mr. Knightley!" replied William Larkins, disappearing in the crowd.

"Joseph," after handing the bridles back to the two constables, the Donwell Master's groom had come to stand by his master's side awaiting instruction, Mr. Knightley said to him, "saddle Lady Dupree and bring her to the abandoned brewery."

"Ah... what about General, sir?" asked Joseph.

"I shall saddle General myself, there is no time to lose; we must set off as soon as possible!"

Once said, Mr. Knightley turned on his heels running for the stable.

"Mr. Knightley," Mr. Anderton called out with anxiety, "I must come with you!"

Mr. Knightley stopped; he turned round and said, "Yes, of course, Anderton, you must find your children!"

"May I come?" another voice interjected from the side. Both Mr. Knightley and Mr. Anderton shifted to see the owner of the voice.

It was Old Hackman. Ever since the day Mr. Knightley confronted his stealing from Abbey Mill Farm, the man had been keeping his promise to his master – not a drop of alcohol had touched his lips, his feet had not gone near any gaming house. On a night like this, when surrounded by ale and wine abound, Hackman kept himself by his master's side, staying clear of the massive temptation. He had been successful all evening long. He had also cleared Mr. Anderton's name by admitting to those whom he had lied to about Anderton's stealing from Abbey Mill Farm. Though a certain amount of awkwardness still existed between the current and former Donwell spademen and hedgers, both of them served their Donwell Master faithfully side by side at the Donwell home-farm.

"I know the area round the brewery like the back of my hand, I want to help!" Hackman offered sincerely.

Mr. Knightley nodded.

"Take the Donwell farm horses," addressing Anderton and Hackman the same time, Mr. Knightley said decisively, "they will be slower, but try to keep up!"

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! :-)


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

* * *

A howling wind suddenly whirling in the clouds, like giant grey yarn unrolling across the dark abyss, had turned the sky into an eerie mass, casting off the calmness that pervaded the night moments ago. The hair on the nape of their necks stood straight up – unsure if it was the sharp wind that swept across their faces, or the thought of some uncanny creatures lurking in the woods that frightened them. The vigils from the ridiculously large eyes of the hooting owls and the rustling whispers of the wind blowing at the ancient trees seemed to warn the four ghost-hunt-adventurers that the dead-brewery-guards were scrutinizing their every move. Tess was shivering, Nicolas was shivering even more. Emma and Agnes, under an unmoved calm facade, clasped their coats closer, held onto their lanterns tighter, grasping firmly the hands of the two youngsters, inching forward step by step.

"_LOOK_!" forgetting his shivers, the youngest adventurer shouted in excitement, "Is that the ghost house?" pointing at the ruined structure emerging behind the bushes a short distance away.

"Now," Agnes, the leader, halted to speak to the pack, "it is time to devise our plan."

"What plan?" Emma asked curiously.

"Whenever we go on an adventure we always find something to take home with us, as a keepsake or a memento. So, what would you all wish to find?"

"An ale bottle!" Tess was the first to announce, obviously had given the subject some thought ahead of time.

"Good choice, Tess!" smiled Agnes. "And you, Nicolas?"

"I want lemonade!" declared the little boy.

"Why would you wish for lemonade at a brewery, silly boy?" Agnes was amused.

"I am thirsty, Agnes!" the five-year-old gave his honest answer.

"The brewery had been abandoned for more than three years, Nicolas! Even if there were lemonade, I would not drink it if my life depended upon it! Your thirst must wait until we are home," said Agnes.

Turning to the new member of the pack, "What about you, Emma?" asked Agnes. "Have you given any thought of what you would like from the brewery?"

Emma was giggling over Nicolas's wish for unwholesome lemonade, picturing her father's mortification if he were to hear the boy's insane declaration. She looked up at Agnes, her hazel eyes twinkling brilliantly, "I would like to see the kitchen!"

"Why would you wish to see the kitchen?" Agnes asked in puzzlement.

"Emma wants lemonade, Agnes!" little Nicolas interjected excitedly.

Giggles burst out of Emma again. "No, you silly goose!" bending to ruffle the boy's unruly hair, "I am much like your sister, Nicolas – nothing could make me drink their lemonade even if there were some!"

"Then what are you looking for, Emma?" asked Agnes.

Long before Agnes asked the question – in fact, as soon as she heard of the Anderton children's plan to venture to the abandoned brewery – Emma had already her object in mind, but she only shrugged and smiled, willing to keep it a secret to herself.

"Not going to tell, huh? Very well then!" Agnes did not press further. "As for me, I would like a piece of the metal loop round the vat if I could find one."

Now addressing the entire motley gang, the leader announced her plan, "Once we reached the brewery, Emma and Nicolas shall visit the kitchen – _Do_ _not_ drink anything, Nicolas, or there will be wriggly creatures crawling in your belly tonight! – Tess and I shall venture to find the broken vats; bottles, I reckon, would be lying near the vats. We must not take long, for I promised Mama that we would not be home very late. Once we found what we wish for, we shall gather again in front of the brewery entry way, is that clear?"

The rest of the gang nodded.

* * *

They had reached the front steps of the ruined brewery. The eerie feeling that the dead-brewery-guards were watching their every move was now trickling down all of their spines. A chilling wind had sent an unexpected black odour to their nostrils.

The unpleasant odour aroused a disquieted feeling in Emma; she stopped walking and said to Agnes with knitted brows, "It smells like someone had just burnt a fire in the brewery!"

"That cannot be, no one is supposed to be inside!" Agnes said, turning to look at Emma, and temporarily halting hers and her siblings' steps.

"But the scent is fresh and strong, someone must have been inside not long ago!" Emma said uneasily.

"Perhaps it was the gypsies!" Agnes suggested.

"But Mr. Knightley said that the gypsies had moved on for at least a month! Besides, the gypsies have their own tents; why would they be staying inside a ruined house like this?" Emma wondered, "_Who could it be.._." the suspicion in her kept growing.

"But it ought to be the gypsies!" Agnes insisted, "Perhaps some of them were left behind without a tent and took shelter at this place... look inside, Emma, it is pitch dark; no one could possibly be in there!"

Emma craned her neck up to acquire a better view of the inside of the brewery, but it was as dark as coal tar, she could not see anything.

"See, there is no one around!" declared Agnes. "If we collect our mementos quickly, we shall be out very soon, no need to be worried, Emma! Let us go in now!"

Emma was still unsure of what Agnes just said, but with hesitation she nodded. She tried to quiet the uneasy feelings rousing inside her, but her instinct kept nudging at her to be on guard.

The four of them began treading forward very slowly and quietly. Unfortunately, their soundlessness was shattered by Nicolas tripping over a broken step; a loud clanging noise came out of the little boy's mishap.

Agnes helped her little brother to his feet, dusting the soil off his breeches, "Where on _earth_ did that sound come from, Nicolas?" amused by the noise, the eldest sister teased, "Did you shove Mama's cooking skillet in your satchel?"

"_No_..." the five-year-old confessed sheepishly, "it is Papa's tinderbox... and... and my squibs..."

"Why did you bring those along?"

"Papa would not let me fire squibs near our cottage, he said I could only fire them in open country..."

"But we have not the time for squibs tonight!" Agnes said.

"Perhaps," Emma interrupted when she saw the disappointment on Nicolas's face, "on our way back we could fire Nicolas's squibs."

Agnes rolled her smiling eyes, and Nicolas grinned happily.

After the ado, the four of them entered into the abandoned brewery at last.

* * *

As soon as the adventurers were inside the brewery, just as planned, Agnes and Tess went looking for the wooden vats, while Emma and Nicolas slowly found their way to the kitchen.

To Emma's surprise, the kitchen had endured little damage from the beer flood. Other than the obvious abandonment of the establishment, the small room was mostly intact, and the wooden floor planks under their feet were not even warped. Emma raised her lantern higher to acquire a broader view of the space. Though the kitchen had sustained little damage from the disaster, it had been vandalized quite badly. The glasses on the windows were all shattered – might have been the act of nature, but it could have been the gypsies' as well; only remnants of the wooden tables and chairs were left, and some wooden floor planks were yanked out of the ground – most likely broken apart by the gypsies or some transients as fuel for their fires to keep them warm; and there was not a cooking skillet, nor pots or pan insight – again, probably taken by the gypsies or even some locals to their tents or homes for their cookery needs.

Emma was glad to see that the shelves and cabinets affixed to the walls were in tolerable conditions. She and Nicolas quickly ran over to the cabinets, which were covered by sticky cobwebs; with their mittened hands, the two of them peeled away the tacky strands, eager to find what they had in mind.

There was no lemonade. _Thank Heaven_! Emma mused. If Nicolas had really wished to quench his thirst with the staled treat, she would have to wrestle the poison out of the obstinate boy's hands.

But to Emma's disappointment, after she had looked into all of the shelves and most of the cabinets, the object of her search was still not to be found. She came to the last cabinet, anxious to see if her wish would be granted, or her effort be futile. Holding her breath desperate to see what was inside, Emma reached her hand for the handle of the cabinet door – but – the sudden noise of a shattering bottle startled her and Nicolas, causing them to turn immediately. Their ears searched for the source of the noise: it had come from outside the kitchen. Emma did not like that sound, but reckoned that Agnes and Tess must have found the bottles and shattered one by mistake.

_This was the last cabinet! She would only take a quick look_ – Emma promised herself – _and then go look for Agnes and Tess at once. _

The young mistress was overjoyed when she opened the last cabinet door! There it was, right in front of her eyes, the object of her search had been hidden behind this last door all this time! She reached out her hands for it – the troubling sound of a shattered bottle had momentarily escaped her occupied mind – quickly examining it, found what she wanted, though not in perfect condition, she carefully tugged it in her coat pocket with exhilarations. But barely had Emma any time to feel rewarded and satisfied with the fruit of her adventure, her exhilarations were vaporized by a vociferous scream.

Nicolas jumped at the sound of the scream. "_W-what_ was it... was it a... _g-__ghost_?" the little boy uttered through his clattered teeth.

Emma was also shaken by the scream, but her mind instantly went to Agnes and Tess – something had happened to them! Her protective nature caused her to pull Nicolas in her arms, hugging him tightly.

"There is no ghost in the brewery, Nicolas!" plagued by the intense haunting scream, she said fervently, "Something must have happened to Agnes and Tess; we must look for them!"

The screaming stopped only for a second; then sounds of violent struggles began! More bottles were shattered, things (broken chairs and tables) were knocked down, and more girls' screaming came as well as men's shouting and swearing in a foreign tongue. Emma, with one hand gripping Nicolas's arm, the other shakily holding onto the lantern, ran to where the noises came from. The struggles grew louder and louder – so were the pounding heart beats of Emma and Nicolas – as they approached the source of the sound. They finally reached the threshold of the chamber that held the brewery vats...

_TERRIFIED_!

Agnes and Tess were kicking their feet and punching their fists with all their strength fighting fiercely against two burly men. One of the men had his arm already wrapped round Tess's waist, dragging, almost carrying her aside, the eleven-year-old was screaming hysterically. Agnes tried to pry her sister out of the arm of her assailant, hitting him with her clutched knuckles, gritting her teeth she repeatedly shouted at the man, "_Let go of her... let go of her... or I will kill you_!"

Unfortunately, the effort of the fifteen-year-old was immediately curbed. The other man, a much stouter beastly figure, came up to Agnes from behind, seizing her, locking her in his arms.

Emma's shaking knees were completely locked, the fourteen-year-old was so terrified by the scene that her entire person froze; and witnessing two monstrous looking men handling his sisters had frightened Nicolas so much that the little boy burst into a hysterical cry.

Nicolas's outburst had caught the eyes of the man who was dragging Tess; he shouted out blazingly, "_Regarde! Deux autres!"_

For a second, the other attacker, Agnes, and Tess all paused and landed their shocking eyes on Emma and Nicolas.

The beast-like man who seized Agnes growled thunderously, "_AR__RR__HG_!" Thrusting Agnes at Tess's captor, the man began trudging toward Emma and Nicolas.

But before Tess's captor could lock Agnes with his free arm, Agnes dug her elbow in his ribcage mercilessly and freed herself from his hold. The fifteen-year-old immediately turned round, screaming madly as she return to the effort of prying her little sister out of the man's strong hold, "_RUN__, Nicolas__, RUN__... go find Papa__... GO__!_"

Nicolas was shaking from head to toe, fear had taken charge of his entire person, the little boy could not move. But the desperate cry from Agnes had awakened Emma from her frozen state, she instantly grasped Nicolas's arm tightly – so tight that she had bruised his arm – and began dragging him to run from the beastly man who was marching toward them.

Fiercely, Emma and Nicolas were running for their lives. Though the man behind was not light on his feet, his large body and long legs had the advantage over the frantic fourteen and five-year-olds. Several moments the large man was within steps behind them. Then, right when Emma and Nicolas took a turn at the corner, and when their pursuer was reaching out his enormous hand for Emma's neck, his finger tips almost dug into her long curls, the voice of the other man came shouting, _"Toi idiot! Reviens, je n'ai qu'un seul bras! J'ai besoin de ton aide"_

Suddenly, the beastly man stopped his pursuit; grumbling furiously, he watched his two preys slip away, and stamped back to his accomplice and their other captives.

* * *

Emma and Nicolas did not look back – desperately, the two of them only kept on running. They had run out of the ruined brewery, through the hops field and dark thick bushes, and were entering into the woods when Nicolas's legs gave in and tripped. They had long been out of breath, now slumping onto the ground; their hearts were pounding so fast that they could have burst out of their rib-cages. The two of them heaved and heaved, and, at last, to their greatest relief, realized that no one was behind them.

But when their breathing and heartbeats had slowed down a little, the harsh reality scourged them like a cracking whip: They had escaped... but Agnes and Tess... _did_ _not_!

Little Nicolas burst into mournful tears, "_I want Mama_..." the little boy wailed, "_I want my Papa__... I want __to go home_!"

Home – It was a longing that Emma shared the same at that dreadful moment! How she longed to be by her father's side next to his fire safely at Hartfield, how she wished she had gone to Mr. Knightley's Harvest Supper rather than coming to the ghost-hunt. Had she had little desire for adventures, she would have been witnessing the reapers' joyous singing and dancing instead of two monsters manhandling Agnes and Tess!

Tears were welling up in the eyes of the fourteen-year-old, but she would not let them fall. Only after the briefest of self-pity, Emma chastised herself that Agnes and Tess were in far too much danger for her to be thinking of herself.

Still in his hysterics, Nicolas continued to cry, "I want to go home... I want Papa... I want to go home..."

"Nicolas," Emma got up from the ground and knelt before Nicolas, grasping the little boy's shoulders, she looked him in the eyes and spoke to him in as calm a manner as she could muster, "I know you want your Papa, but Agnes and Tess need our help...we cannot go home..."

"I am frightened, Emma!" little Nicolas flung his arms round Emma's neck, and cried loudly into her shoulder.

"I know, Nicolas..." Emma wrapped the little boy in her arms tightly, "I know you are frightened... I am frightened as well..." she took a deep breath in an effort to dispel the tremors in her voice, "but we must be brave for Agnes and Tess!"

Suddenly, Nicolas looked up at Emma with swollen eyes and wet sniffles – the little boy had just remembered something important. "Agnes said to go find Papa, Emma..."

Emma's mind twirled rapidly – indeed, at the present, the most obvious was to run for help, to find Mr. Knightley, Mr. Anderton, or someone in the village to rescue Agnes and Tess. But, to leave now would be a mistake! She knew she could not be the only one who could see the obvious, Agnes and Tess's captors must have surmised that their runaway preys would call for and return with help, they would be foolish to stay in the brewery. No doubt those men would flee, Emma was certain, but what she feared the most was...

"If those men fled and took Agnes and Tess with them..." Emma said to Nicolas, unable to suppress the trepidation inside her, "we may never see Agnes and Tess again..."

The five-year-old wailed violently again, crying out even louder than before, "Do not let them take Agnes and Tess... I want Agnes and Tess... I want Agnes and Tess..." Nicolas kept screaming.

Emma pulled Nicolas on her laps, clasping him tightly, and rocked him in her arms until the little boy would stop crying. Though it took less than a minute, it had felt like eternity to the fourteen-year-old.

As soon as Nicolas had calmed down enough, Emma spoke to him, "Will you be a brave soldier for Agnes, Tess, and me, Nicolas – to stand against our French enemies?"

Swiping the tears off his face, Nicolas's big round eyes stared into Emma's disbelievingly, the little boy asked with larger than his life curiosity, "They are _French_?"

"From the way they spoke I am certain that they are French!"

"They must have come to take our country!"

"Or your sisters!"

"Then – we must fight our enemies, like Lord Nelson did!" Suddenly the little boy was all grown-up and brave.

"We are far too small to fight them – but we _must _find a way to save Agnes and Tess!" Emma said with resolve.

* * *

The team of equestrians and hounds had reached the crossroads on the northern edge of Highbury.

Mr. Knightley sank deep into his saddle, pulling the reins to quickly bring General to a halt; those who were behind him followed.

He turned his stallion to face his regiment and spoke to them, "The road on the right leads to the old farm house, and the one on the left to the abandoned brewery, we must divide into two teams."

"Hills," he commanded, "you and Oxley shall take the road on the right to search the area near the old farm house. Simon, take half the hounds and follow the constables. The rest of us shall take the road on the left and search the area round the brewery. Oxley, hand me several pieces of garment from the prisoners."

As soon as the Epsom constable trotted next to Mr. Knightley and handed over the requested garment, he, the local constable, the Donwell hound-handler and the hounds immediately took off on the road to the right.

Mr. Knightley turned to speak to the other two men, "Anderton, Hackman – how are you keeping up?"

"Just fine, sir!" both men assured.

"Then let's go!"

The magistrate leaned forward, gave General several kicks, and within seconds brought his magnificent horse to a full gallop.

* * *

**A/N**: Please pardon my French - for I don't know any! The French in the story were all from the translators of Bing and Google! :D

Thank you so much for reading! :-)


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: **Hi Pauline - thank you so much for pointing out my laughable mistakes in the last chapter! :D I had suspected something like that would happen and I was right! Lol! I've gone back and corrected them. There's more French in this chapter - still coming from Google and Bing (haha) - please do let me know if there's any such mistakes again, I would love the chance to make them right! :D

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

* * *

Emma and Nicolas had returned to the brewery and reached the low stone wall surrounding the back yard of the abandoned house. The back yard, which was now sprawling with weeds and wild bushes as tall as a small child, was immediately outside the chamber that held the broken vats – the chamber where Emma and Nicolas witnessed two burly Frenchmen capturing Agnes and Tess less than quarter of an hour ago. Cautiously, Emma blew out the light in her lantern to escape the watchful eyes of the two Frenchmen inside.

They had ducked quietly behind the low stone wall, and were extremely mindful of not being discovered by the two Frenchmen. Emma placed a finger on her lips to signal Nicolas to be completely silent. She carefully craned her neck up just enough to allow her to look above the stone wall. Through the shattered window, she saw light flickering inside the chamber, the Frenchmen must have made a fire for light and to keep warm, but she was too far from the brewery and the weeds were too thick to get a clear view of what was inside.

Ducking back down behind the stone wall, "Nicolas," Emma whispered, "I need to move closer to the brewery to see if Agnes and Tess are still inside," laying a hand on the boy's shoulder, "but you stay here and do not make a sound."

The boy shook his head, unwilling to be left alone.

"Nicolas," speaking even lower, Emma urged, "if you wish to be fit for a first rate regiment, you ought to be brave! You stay here and guard our land, let not any Frenchman come near this place."

Courage had returned to little Nicolas; he nodded bravely and resolved to be the brave soldier he was inspired to be. Emma ruffled his unruly hair; then with heavy heartbeats she began to move closer to the brewery.

Very quietly she had crossed the large yard, ducking behind thick bushes, and peeping through them discreetly as she slowly reached the house.

"_Cette jeune fille a mordu mon bras blessé_!" Emma heard one of the men shouted out angrily.

She was immediately outside the chamber now, peering into the room through the broken window, taking pain to make certain that no one could notice her from the inside. Agnes and Tess were sitting on the floor with their mouths gagged, and their hands and feet all tied up. She was glad to see them being quite close to the fire, at least this would keep them warm in the biting cold, but it wrenched her heart to see the state of wretchedness that they were in. Tess was sobbing weakly, burying her face in Agnes's bosom; Agnes was looking very pale – must have been fatigued from fighting the men too fiercely, straining her body and draining all the strengths she had!

The two Frenchmen were a little removed from the fire. One of them was sitting on a chair, wincing, seemingly in pain. The man was holding out his arm, letting the other man binding it up with some rags. Uncertain of the identities of these two men, Emma conjectured that the one sitting must be in higher ranking amongst the two – he had a commanding voice and countenance, and he continually cursed at the other man even when the other man was servicing him – this man could be the master or the commander of the other. The other man was much larger though, he was also younger, judging from his slowness and his needs of instruction for every move he made, Emma surmised, he surely was lower in ranking as well as understanding.

French, as with many other subjects, was not a subject that Emma was fond of; she often listened to Miss Taylor's French lessons with only half a mind. Though she had no intention to master the language, clever Emma managed to please her governess with the little that she was willing to learn. She was never grateful for having to learn the language – for what good would it do to know French in Highbury? But tonight she felt very differently. For once in her life, she found the education that she had been receiving to become an accomplished young lady was at last put to good use. From what she just heard, Agnes must have bitten the man's arm causing him great pain, and did not he say that it was his bad arm? Emma giggled inwardly, cheering Agnes for a job well done!

"_Qu'allons-nous faire d'eux?_" the younger man asked.

"_Les emmener avec nous!_" the bad-arm man shouted in return.

Shocked by what she just heard, Emma almost gasped aloud, she covered her mouth with both her hands – _the man was indeed planning to take Agnes and Tess away_!

"_Les emmener avec nous?_" The other man sounded surprised.

_"Nous pouvons vendre les filles,__"_ the bad-arm man said with the wickedest of faces, "_ou en faire nos esclaves!"_

_Sell Agnes and Tess_!_ Made them their __slaves_! What that man said horrified Emma – her wish to save her friends grew even more urgent now.

"_Dépêche-toi, idiot!"_ the bad-arm man shouted at the younger man again. "_nous devons fuir avant que quelqu'un ne vienne!_"

_Oh, no_! – Emma panicked – _They were leaving soon_! She scurried back to where Nicolas was, ducking behind the stone wall again.

"They..." catching her breath, she heaved, "they will... be... leaving soon... with Agnes and Tess!"

"No!" Nicolas cried out in anxious whispers, "What should we do?"

Emma could literally hear her own heart pounding, for she had not the slightest notion on what to do, other than to follow the two men with Agnes and Tess. But – that would not do! What if the men discovered that they were being followed, what if they fled all the way outside of Highbury, she and Nicolas could hardly follow them in such a long way!

The fourteen-year-old forced herself to keep calm and think. She looked round their immediate surroundings for signs or inspirations to help her contrive a plan, a scheme, or anything that would free Agnes and Tess. There were sprays of dried leafs and hay, twigs and tree branches everywhere on the ground... remnant of an old bonfire was left yards away from the brewery... there were rocks of all sizes... a rusty tin pail lying several feet across the yard... Emma kept searching... her heart kept hoping for something... something that would set off her fancy... something that would help her save her friends... her eyes kept scanning from place to place... until they were suddenly caught by the bulge of Nicolas's satchel – and those hazel jewels of hers sparkled!

"Nicolas!" Emma said hurriedly, "What else is in your satchel besides the tinderbox and squibs?" reaching her hands for the boy's belongings.

"Ah..." Emma had already begun emptying the content of his satchel as Nicolas detailed his precious possession, "I also have marrons, rockets... and serpents."

"Excellent!" Emma exclaimed.

She quietly scuttled cross the yard to retrieve the rusty tin pail and picked up a large rock, and ran back to Nicolas.

"Are you allowed to make loud noises at home, Nicolas?" Emma asked lowly.

"Never!" the five-year-old replied, "I would be scolded if I wake up the baby!"

"Tonight" Emma's brilliant eyes shone, "is your chance to make as much and as loud noises as you wish!"

"_It is_?" little Nicolas gasped.

"Hmm!" Emma nodded.

"Are we not afraid of our enemies hearing us?" still whispering, Nicolas asked worriedly.

"No! In fact we are going to make sure that our enemies could hear us!"

The little boy was absolutely delighted – a wide grin spread across Nicolas's face.

"Take this," she handed him the pail, "and this rock." The rock was as big as the palm of Nicolas's hand. "Watch me carefully for my signal - when I nod at you, you shall strike the pail with the rock as hard as you can, keep on making the loudest noise until I tell you to stop."

Nodding resolutely, the boy soldier received his order and weapons with pride.

Emma gathered the tinderbox and all the fireworks with her, and ran to a place where it was relatively clear of bushes and weeds, and safe enough to set off fireworks. She looked up at the moon, which was shining brightly upon her face, making certain that Nicolas would be able to see her signal when the time came. She took another peek inside the brewery through the broken window, her heart beat even faster when she saw the bad-arm man standing up from his chair, flexing his bind-up arm. The two Frenchmen seemed to be moving toward Agnes and Tess.

_There was no time_ – Emma's heart raced – _she must act quickly_!

Barely able to contain the shakiness in her hands to hold fast to the flint and steel, Emma began to strike the two objects against each other. It usually took many minutes to strike a light from a tinderbox, but Emma had not even a minute to spare. She turned quickly and saw that the two men were untying Agnes and Tess's feet – any moments they would be fleeing from the brewery, taking her friends with them!

She tried to strike a fire with the flint and steel again... again... again... and again, but the flint and steel would not give! Her heart was pounding so hard at her chest that it hurt. Out of desperation, the fourteen-year-old said an earnest prayer in her heart, "_Dear Lord__, I am sorry for __lying so that I could __come tonight!__ I promise Y__ou that I __would never lie in order to go on an adventure__, and I shall always go to Mr. Knightley's Harvest Supper! Pray help us__... pray help us save Agnes and Tess_!"

Gulping down a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes tight and struck the flint against the steel with all her might, saying urgently, "_Pray Lor__d _–_ let there be L__ight_!"

Emma opened her eyes – and – there was Light!

With a fire of hope and an indescribable gratitude, she watched the tiny spark flared in the darkness, and she immediately picked up a marron and lit it.

"_N__icolas_," she yelled, giving the boy a firm nod, "_NOW_!"

Emma threw the sizzling marron up in the air and instantly it burst into fire with a deafening boom. Nicolas began striking the tin pail with the large rock as fast and as hard as he could. Courage and Divine Power had bestowed the little boy with strength only a true soldier could possess, the five-year-old was producing thunderous noises that sounded like a regiment of horsemen closing in the area. Emma continued to ignite the fireworks as rapidly as she could, one succeeding another, all of which exploded gloriously, making a spectacular display of fire and lights in the sky, and roaring ceaselessly in the dead of the night.

* * *

Forging ahead to the abandoned brewery in full speed, Mr. Knightley was almost a mile ahead of the rest of his team when he saw the distant sky lit up with sparks and flares from fireworks. He could even hear faintly the booming noises from the distance despite the wild drumming of his horse's hoofs. There were scarcely any residence within a mile radius, the firework could not have been an act of celebration or for leisurely pleasure – it must be an alert or a sign for help! His heart was racing as fast as General's gallops. The magistrate applied his riding whip on his stallion, urging the magnificent horse forward to an unprecedented speed, bolting toward the destined house.

* * *

There were great clamours and confusions inside the vats chamber. Agnes and Tess's captors were loosening the ropes round the girls' feet when they heard the thunderous noises which sounded like a troop of horsemen tromping the ground outside the chamber and the deafening roaring that resembled the exploding sound of shooting riffles. The endless thunderclaps had startled the two Frenchmen and thrown them into uttered terrors. Both men's jaw dropped as their heads turned instantly to follow the sound, and the loosened ropes round the girls' feet had slipped out of their hands. With what was left of her strengths, Agnes took the chance to kick the beastly Frenchman in the groin and brought him painfully to his knees; Tess tried the same tactic with the man who had a bind-up arm, but missed. Rather than returning a strike at his captives and seizing them, the Frenchman with a wounded arm turned on his heels and ran out of the brewery, and within seconds, the younger Frenchman rose, limping behind his superior.

Now that their feet were freed, Agnes and Tess struggled to stand with their hands still tied behind their backs, and as soon as they were on their feet, they ran out of the brewery to where the loud sound came from.

Emma was still furiously lighting the fireworks when she saw Agnes and Tess running out of the brewery toward her. The fourteen-year-old was overcome with joy! She threw the last piece of rocket in the air and dropped everything else in her hands, running to Agnes and Tess and took the sisters into her embrace, kissing them, hugging them with a sense of relief that she had never felt in her entire life.

But not until Emma had released them from her arms that she realized Agnes and Tess's mouths were still gagged and their hands tied. She removed the restrains in their mouths as fast as her trembling hands could manage. Nicolas, who was on the other side of the yard, was still striking the rock against the tin pail – the brave little soldier had squeezed his eyes closed while performing his duty with all his might.

"_Nicolas_!" Agnes called out excitedly to her brother's direction as Emma untied her hands, but no response came from her little brother.

"_NICOLAS_!" Agnes shouted again, but the boy did not seem to have heard his sister.

Once Agnes and Tess's hands were freed, Emma ran quickly ahead, reaching Nicolas before Agnes and Tess did. She grasped Nicolas's hands stopping him from hitting the tin pail, taking the boy completely by surprise, but her reassuring smile calmed little Nicolas as soon as his eyes flung opened. From the little hero's ears, Emma removed the tiny cloth-balls that she rolled up out of her torn handkerchief to protect the delicate ears of the five-year-old from the deafening sound. She also did the same with her own ears.

"_Nicolas_!" Agnes and Tess both cried out, throwing themselves at their younger brother, hugging and kissing him till the little fellow blush, happy tears were streaming down the three siblings' faces.

As she watched the Anderton children embracing and kissing each other, drenching in the joy of their safe deliverance, Emma grew very pale. She suddenly felt her knees went very weak; her entire body was thoroughly drained – no doubt feeling the effect from all that she had endured for the last half hour! But the moment the exhaustion of the fourteen-year-old almost caused her strained eyelids to close, she heard...

"_Emma_!"

The most comforting and endearing voice had called out her name!

Emma turned and her eyes were met by the sight that immediately brought her to tears – while the Anderton children were rejoicing in their reunion, Mr. Knightley had arrived and practically jumped off his horse when he saw the back of his young friend. With knees that had barely enough strength to stand, she ran to Mr. Knightley immediately, flung herself at him, and began sobbing inconsolably.

Propriety had its place, but not at that moment – the gentleman's sense of propriety gave way to his exhilarated relief when he saw that his young and dearest friend standing in front of him in one piece! Mr. Knightley received Emma with outstretched arms, folding her in them, letting her sob freely into his chest.

"Are you hurt, Emma?" he asked urgently. "I am sorry I did not come sooner! Did you run into the French prisoners? Did they hurt you?" With his arms still enveloping tightly the frame that had suddenly turned fragile, Mr. Knightley pressed his cheek on top of Emma's head; his infinite relief mingled with unspeakable anxiety wished he could keep her in his arms and shield her from all harms for the rest of her life.

Now that Emma felt safe in the presence of her strong friend, she was willing to let the feelings of despair, anxiety, fret, and all that were held up inside her in order to be brave for Agnes and Tess pouring out of her young soul.

"I am so glad you have come..." burying her face in the lapels of his coat, she muffled chokingly, "I was so frightened, Mr. Knightley... I was so frightened... they were going to take Agnes and Tess away... I am so glad you have come..." Tears of the fourteen-year-old could not be stopped.

And when at last her tears subsided, Emma pulled herself a little away from Mr. Knightley, blushing, sniffling, and looking up at him in astonishment, "Those men were_ prisoners_?"

"Yes, Emma! They had escaped from the prison in Epsom and fled to Highbury!" Mr. Knightley replied, tugging Emma's long tumbled curls behind her ears and wiping the tears on her face with his thumb.

"They were going to take Agnes and Tess with them, Mr. Knightley! You must stop them before they hurt someone else!" Emma implored, could not shake the horrid images of the two monstrous Frenchmen seizing and dragging Agnes and Tess from her mind.

"_Agnes... Tess... Nicolas_!" an anxious voice came running at the group.

Mr. Anderton, Old Hackman and the rest of the hounds had finally arrived. As soon as Mr. Anderton saw his three children from a little distance away, he jumped off his horse and ran to them. He took all three of them in his arms, covering them with kisses, clasping them to his chest, and cherishing them as they had just been born. Anxiously, the father asked if any of his children were hurt, though all of them had endured much, by Divine Providence, none of them were injured.

"Anderton," Mr. Knightley temporarily interrupted the happy reunion, "stay with the children!" the magistrate implored. "Hackman and I shall go after the prisoners. Pray see to that _all_ the children," his disquieted eyes moved to Emma, "are safe!"

"Yes, Mr. Knightley!" assured the relieved father.

With his usual agility and determination, Mr. Knightley took the pieces of garment that belonged to the prisoners out of the saddlebag, let each of his hounds took a good sniff at the scent of the garments. At his command, "_TRACK_!" the canines bolted off, began hunting for the scent of their objects.

Mr. Knightley and Old Hackman mounted back onto their horses, and rode off immediately after the hounds.

* * *

The moon hung high was particularly bright, lighting a clear path for the two fugitives. The two Frenchmen were running like mad toward the woods. But ere long, fierce barking was trailing furiously behind them. It took almost instantly for the hounds to discover the scented track of their objects, their speed increased and barking grew fiercer as the scent grew stronger. If the Frenchmen were running like mad, the hounds were running even madder. Having been excellently trained, the Donwell canines were hungry for their rewards, like starving lions chasing their gazelles.

In spite of his wounded arm, the speed of the Frenchman in higher command was not the least impeded. While his much stouter mate was still cutting through the hops field, he had already darted pass the bushes heading into the woods. As the slower Frenchman was about to enter into the dark bushes, two of the fastest Donwell hounds had caught up with him. The two canines threw themselves at the Frenchman, bringing his run to a halt, but the large man was as fearless as he was beastly, with two bare hands, he took one of the hounds by the neck, wrapped it under his arms, kicking the other mercilessly with his boulder-hard feet.

Mr. Knightley, Old Hackman, and the rest of the hounds were only moments behind the first two hounds. When the magistrate and the farm-labourer pulled their reins to still their horses, they were taken aback by the scene where one of the Donwell hounds was lying lifelessly on the ground, and near it was the other canine locked under the arms of the burly Frenchman – the man had already broken the neck of the first hound and was wringing the neck of the second choking the canine to a whimper.

Fearing that the second Donwell hound would soon be strangled and the Frenchman would escape, the once famed spademan and hedger, Old Hackman, took out the small switching knife from his pocket, without a blink of an eye, flung the knife at the Frenchman, hitting, perfectly on target, his lower abdomen, inflicting great pain on the man without perforating his viscera, thus keeping the fugitive alive. Blood and agonizing howls gushed out of the brutal man, his hold on the hound immediately loosened, leaving the canine panting for breaths.

Mr. Knightley saw that the Frenchman was sufficiently injured and several angry Donwell canines were already surrounding the man who ruthlessly took one of their mate's life, he called out to Old Hackman, "Will you stay and guard the prisoner while I chase the other, Hackman?"

"Yes, sir! This man shan't be going anywhere with that wound!" assured Old Hackman, dismounting from his horse.

While Old Hackman proceeded to restrain the wounded French prisoner with a rope, Mr. Knightley gave a sharp command to his hounds, "_TRACK_!_" _and the hounds immediately took off to hunt for the other owner of the scent.

* * *

Couple minutes into their chase, the Donwell hounds, once again, came to a halt. They seemed to have caught up with the object of their chase, and were inching forward cautiously. In barely a few seconds, Mr. Knightley also arrived. Though the white moon was still shining bright, the bushes and tall trees had made vision of the human eyes limited. He saw his hounds hovering over something, but could not decipher the object until he trotted closer. One look at the heap that his hounds were burying their noses in, Mr. Knightley's discerning eyes immediately recognized that what was lying on the ground was only the shirt of the fugitive, not the fugitive himself. The conniving Frenchman had shed his shirt in order to stall the canines that were looking forward to sink their teeth in his flesh.

"_ADVANCE_!"

The magistrate lost no time to command his hounds to resume their pursuit of the fleeing fugitive.

* * *

No matter how fast he was running, and in spite of his conniving effort to distract his pursuers, it was impossible to outrun the ferocious hounds that only had a single object in mind. Though the French prisoner was already deep into the woods, within a few minutes, the pack of hounds were caught up with him. Mr. Knightley and General were following closely behind when one of the Donwell canines hurled himself at his prey.

Instantly, falling on his wounded arm, the Frenchman was thrust onto the ground by the canine; and the next moment when he looked up, sitting in dirt wincing in pain, he was already surrounded by bloodthirsty hounds that were growling hostility and bearing their sharp teeth at him. Levelling their heads, readying themselves to attack, several hounds were inching steadily toward their prey when Mr. Knightley's firm voice came.

"_HOLD_!" their master commanded sharply – all movements, except for the gnashing of teeth and malignant growling, from the hounds ceased.

The Frenchman, his snake-like eyes staring poisonously at the canines, saw that his chasers had stopped moving forward, he thought it was his chance to make a run again. Slowly, he shifted his body to the side of his good arm, aiming to push himself up to his feet.

Relentless was the Frenchman who would stop at nothing to pursue his escape, nevertheless, at the present, all his efforts had decayed to a lost cause – the Donwell hounds had fixed their piercing eyes at their prey, and at his slightest movement, their muscular legs began to flex, snarling guttural barks that permeated dangerous threats to their captive.

"_Hold it_!" coolly, the Donwell Master ordered his hounds to stop moving forward.

Looking down on the desperate man from his majestic General, Mr. Knightley called out dryly to the Frenchman...

"_Je ne bougerais pas, si j'étais vous, mes chiens n'ont pas encore soupé!"_

The Frenchman looked up at the impeccable gentleman perching regally on his magnificent stallion, noting the remarkable confidence in the eyes of the horseman twinkling under the moonshine – he understood what the gentleman had implied. Grumbling, the fugitive fell back down on the dirt, slamming his fist on the ground, grudgingly awaiting his ultimate sentence.

At that moment, Hills and Oxley arrived at the scene. The two constables quickly dismounted and proceeded to restrain the French prisoner with the long ropes they carried on their horses. The captured escapees, both the younger one and his superior, were to be held securely at the Highbury gaol, until such time that arrangements for escorting them back to Epsom were made.

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you so much for reading! :-D


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: _Pauline_**, thank you again for correcting my defective Google/Bing French, I've gone back to the last chapter and edited them. Hurray - no more French in this chapter!:D Also thank you,**_ slytherinsal_**, for pointing out that a wound in the abdomen would almost always be deadly in those time. I had suspected it and thought that it was implied when Hackman purposely flinging the knife in such a way that would not kill the man, but I suppose it was not clear enough. I've revised that particular part in the last chapter to make it obvious that the wound was not fatal. :D

* * *

"_...from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?" _

_Emma - Chapter 48_

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

* * *

Once all that had happened were recounted in copious details by the four ghost-hunt adventurers to the magistrate and the two constables, Mr. Anderton, the relieved father, immediately repaired his three children with him to the comfort of their cottage, where he was certain that his wife was awaiting anxiously with their baby daughter in her arms pacing the small space of their house.

With a heart filled with gratitude, Mr. Knightley thanked his goodwill helper, Old Hackman, for coming along the chase of the fugitives, praising him for his incomparable skill with the switching knife in bringing the brutal man to his arrest and binding up the man's wound to preserve his life. He also gave order to Simon to reward the hounds with the Harvest Supper roast beef upon their return to Donwell, and assured the hound-handler that he would be rewarded with an extra guinea for his job well done on the well-trained canines. Joseph, who had arrived at the abandoned brewery with Lady Dupree while Mr. Knightley was chasing the prisoners in the woods, was promised to the same reward as soon as the groom led the farm horses back to the Donwell barn.

After Mr. Knightley made certain that everyone except for Emma, who was standing and waiting quietly next to Lady Dupree, had returned to where they should be, he turned round – looking decidedly grave – and walked over to Emma and Lady Dupree.

There were no longer any burly Frenchmen, or fierce barking from bloodthirsty hounds, nor the constables' countless questions – only the serene moon glowing in the deep night sky, the stillness of the cold night, Mr. Knightley, Emma, the stallion, and the mare. Emma was looking pale under the moonlight, she was shivering visibly. Silently, Mr. Knightley took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

Since his return from chasing the prisoners in the woods, the gentleman had not said a word to his young friend. He had stood silently with the group, listening intently to the four adventurers recounting the event of the night answering the constable's questions, interjecting comments and questions only on several occasions.

Though the effect of the night had exhausted her strengths and drained her of her wits, Mr. Knightley's silence had not gone unnoticed by Emma. The moment when the gentleman appeared calling out her name, the fourteen-year-old had felt like a mighty fortress had come to shield her from all harms, she was feeling safe again, and no longer needed to bear the burden of protecting Nicolas while endeavouring to save Agnes and Tess, which was why her reservoir of tears broke out so wildly from the dam. She was certain that Mr. Knightley had felt as much relief when he saw her as she had felt when she saw him, and she admired how the magistrate commanded his regiment of citizens and hounds with his usual swiftness and efficaciousness and brought the prisoners to arrest. He seemed in perfect accord with the constables, the Andertons, Mr. Hackman, Simon the hound-handler, and Joseph his groom! Then why had not he spoken a word to her since the chase?

_There _– Emma reckoned – _could only be one reason_!

The silence between her and Mr. Knightley was intolerable. Emma could not help it any longer; she spoke up suddenly, breaking the dreadful silence at last, "You are _angry_ with me, Mr. Knightley!"

Only a brief pause from his activities, it was obvious that Mr. Knightley had heard what Emma said, but without a word, or even a look, the gentleman resumed examining the bridle on Lady Dupree, making certain that the saddle was secured.

The young lady never liked silence for an answer; frowningly, she followed the gentleman walking to the other side of the mare.

"You are _angry_ with me, Mr. Knightley!" Emma blurted again. "I know you are angry with me... this is why you are not speaking to me!"

Still looking grave, Mr. Knightley took an audible breath, kept his steadfast focus on tightening the girth underneath Lady Dupree. The frown between Emma's brows was growing deeper by every second that her grown up friend insisting in his unusual silence.

"I know you are angry with me for _lying_ to you..." the young lady said it ardently, "I am _sorry_ that I lied to you... and I am _sorry_ that I did not come to the Donwell Harvest Supper tonight!" Though she sounded more irritated than apologetic, Emma was sincere in her confession.

The hands that had been fiddling the stirrup were now gripping the metal tightly, so tight that his knuckles began to turn white. Emma saw that Mr. Knightley's gaze was fixed intently on the ground – she thought that she had hit upon the target, so she pressed, "I promise you that I shall come to the Supper _next_ year and _every_ year to come, Mr. Knightley!"

It startled Emma when Mr. Knightley suddenly flung his hand off of the stirrup and looked up, staring straight into her eyes with emotions she had never seen.

"Emma!" the gentleman sounded incredulous, "You think _all_ I care is the Donwell Harvest Supper?"

Emma was taken aback by his fervent reaction, and with stammers she uttered, "Ah... of... of course... I... I lied to you so that I could come to the ghost-hunt... you... you must be _angry_ with me for not going to the Supper tonight!"

"_DAMN_ the Supper, Emma!" Mr. Knightley finally snapped. He took a quick step forward in front of Emma and gripped her arms so tightly that made her wince. "Did you know how much, _HOW MUCH_, danger you had put yourself in tonight?" he said hotly.

Emma quailed immediately. She had never seen Mr. Knightley being this upset before, the gentleman was always calm and in good humour, even when she had been most impertinent to him, never had he lost his temper at her the way he just did.

"_Why_..." she said weakly, "_why_... are you yelling at me?"

"_WHY_ did you not look for help, Emma?" he let go of her arms, but his thunderous voice pounded at her ears and her heart. "_WHY_ did you go back to the brewery when you had _barely_ escaped from the hand of the Frenchman?"

"_But_... _but_..." Emma swallowed, her voice reduced to a mousy squeak, "I... I had not other choices, Mr. Knightley! Agnes and Tess were in great danger..."

"_WHICH_" Mr. Knightley interjected, unable to suppress the emotion boiling within him, "was _EXACTLY_ why you should have gone for help!"

"But... Mr. Knightley," uneasily, Emma summoned a little courage to speak up, "the two Frenchmen knew we were going to look for help, and they would have fled far away with Agnes and Tess by the time any help could arrive... and... and we might never be able to find them... never be able to find Agnes and Tess!"

In spite of his heart battering ruthlessly at his chest hammering throbbing pulses in his ears, Mr. Knightley heard Emma's reason, and for a brief moment, his senses seemed to have partially resumed its control – the sensible voice inside the gentleman knew that had he been thrust into the same situation, he would have done what Emma did! But despite how hard he tried, it was impossible to shake the image that had been haunting him since he first laid eyes on the two French prisoners: There was no mistaking that those two were violent men, soldiers who had killed in battlefields, raided through villages, and tortured the innocence heartlessly along the way; it was a miracle that Agnes and Tess came out of the dangerous situation unscathed – but what shook him to his core was that it was also a miracle that Emma did not fall into the brutal hands of those men!

Mr. Knightley shut his eyes involuntarily, reliving the things he heard Emma recounted to the constables – almost everything that he heard from her had shaken him to an unbearable state!

"Did not you say that the Frenchman who was chasing you and Nicolas nearly had his hand on your neck?" he asked sombrely. "Those men were trained to _KILL_, Emma! That man could have broken your neck like breaking a twig without a blink of an eye!"

Emma shuddered helplessly, unconscious of her own hand lifting to rub the back of her neck. The chilling thought of what Mr. Knightley just said had sent frigid shivers to her spine. But in an effort to distract Mr. Knightley from his agitation and make lighter of the matter, she mustered a forced smile and said with animation, "But you see, Mr. Knightley, he did not hurt me! Nicolas and I even saved Agnes and Tess!"

"Yes, Emma, it was well done of you and Nicolas, and I attribute it to your ingenious scheme!" Mr. Knightley said grimly. "But did it ever, _EVER_, occur to you that it could have been _YOU _who were captured by those prisoners? And what if Agnes could not come up with a scheme to save you..." There was deep pain in his voice, "Lord knows _what_ they might have done to _you_!" His thoughts troubled him so much that he turned away abruptly from Emma.

The forced smile instantly fell from Emma's face. It was not difficult for the fourteen-year-old who had a lively imagination to picture what could have happened were she the one captured by the French prisoners – she would have been the one tied up and gagged, no doubt! And Mr. Knightley was right, what if Agnes could not conjured up with a scheme to save her... she was certain that the two Frenchmen would have taken her away from Highbury... enslaved her... or perhaps... even... killed her! All these notions had frightened the fourteen-year-old so much that she suddenly broke down in tears.

"_All_ I wished was to go to the ghost-hunt..." she cried, trembling with fears and remorse, "I did not know it would turn out like _this_..."

Emma's sorrowful sobs caused Mr. Knightley to turn back to her instantly. He felt a pair of stern hands squeezing his heart. The gentleman did not set out to make his young friend cry, he only wished her to see the severity of the situation, although, he could have done it in a less severe way!

But, to own the truth, he could hardly control his emotions, his anxiety for her well-being and her safety. His mind kept drifting back to the haunting images of the Frenchman wringing the neck of the Donwell hound, and all he could think of was that the neck that was wrapped under the man's arm could have been Emma's... and the lifeless form lying on the ground... instead of his Donwell hound's... that lifeless form could have been Emma's as well!

Why was it that when it came to the well being of his young friend, his faculty of reasons seemed to be easily tossed aside? And why was it that the thought of Emma getting hurt could throw his perfectly composed mind into a whirlwind of frantic fear? Oh, how he wished he knew the answers to his questions!

Mr. Knightley took a very long sigh, admitting inwardly that Emma did not deserve his harsh admonishment. He took another deep breath to quiet the twinges of guilt and regrets inside, the calmness that was characteristic of him began to suffuse within him, and his harsh tone had softened considerably when he spoke, "Why did not you tell me that you wished to go on a ghost-hunt?"

With tears pricking at her eyes, Emma looked up at Mr. Knightley. "Papa would not let me... and no one could change Papa's mind!"

"I would have come with you if you asked, Emma!" Mr. Knightley's tone went even gentler, "I am certain that with some convincing, your father would have trusted you in my company."

"But you have the Harvest Supper and all your labourers to look after tonight!" replied Emma softly, the continuous flow of her tears was finally easing up.

"Could we have come on a different night?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"No!" Emma sniffled, "It would not do... even if we could come on a different night..." She frowned, "You are a grown-up, Mr. Knightley! Ghost-hunts are for children, not for sensible gentleman like you!"

"We could invite the Anderton children, or any children you wish to come along on a different night, Emma," suggested Mr. Knightley patiently.

"But..." stamping a foot in frustration, Emma cried, "you do not understand..."

Her eyes were welling up again! The fourteen-year-old looked up at Mr. Knightley and with passion she said, "The Anderton children had planned on coming tonight... their father let them choose between the Harvest Supper and the ghost-hunt... and they chose the ghost-hunt! I wished to come with them... I wished to be like them... they could choose what they wish to do... why cannot I? Why cannot I do things that are commonplace to other children? Why cannot I choose? Why... why cannot I be like _them_?" Large teardrops were dripping from Emma's eyes.

It pained Mr. Knightley to see the glistening tears streaming down Emma's cheeks. And he understood her frustrations. So often he was amazed by the immeasurable patience his young friend had for her father – even he, who was famed for his good humour and kind heart, could, at times, find his patience being tried by Mr. Woodhouse's tedious demands and countless wracked nerves, and he only spent an hour or two with the old gentleman at a time. Emma had set an admirable example for him and others to follow when it came to treating one's father with love and patience, but such unconditional love and patience were not given without their tolls! Emma had always borne it willingly, only in extraordinary circumstances, such as the adventure presented tonight, would she fall into the temptation of pitying herself.

"Because you are not them, Emma!" said Mr. Knightley, reflectively.

He placed his comforting hands on Emma's shoulders, with the warmest regards, speaking very kindly to her, "You have always accepted that your father is different from other children's fathers, and you have borne it so well! Though no one had ever bidden you to stay by your father's side or steer away from the many things that could distress him, you have done it all on your own will and out of love! Your selfless love for your father moves you to make the choices that you make, in spite of yourself, Emma!"

Though droplets of tears were still dangling on Emma's long lashes, Mr. Knightley's kind words were like frangrant ointment poured over her tender soul, and they served to remind her of how much she had always loved her papa, and how much her papa had always loved her. Suddenly, the notion of wishing to be like other children seemed unfathomable to her!

Mr. Knightley was encouraged to see Emma's fervent crying had stopped. His kind face quickly broke into a grin, he asked Emma with twinkles in his eyes, "Would you like to know a secret?"

Just as her hands had swiped away her tears, Mr. Knightley's words had wiped away all the sadness on her face. Emma, the inquisitive youth whose insatiable curiosity could be easily sparked, looked up at Mr. Knightley, gleaming wonders in her eyes, beckoned the gentleman to reveal his secret.

The gentleman looked round, as if making certain that no one was nearby eavesdropping on his secret, he lowered his voice to almost a whisper and said to her, "_I am very proud of you__, Emma_!"

Mr. Knightley's revelation had such an effect on Emma that a sprightly smile sprang up on her tear-streaked face at once.

"But try not to remember this revelation, my dear Emma," the gentleman's grin widened playfully, "for I fear that the effect of my lectures on you shall be lessened greatly from here on now!"

Mr. Knightley was very pleased to see that the tears of frustrations on his dear young friend had now turned into tears of joy. But he was surprised at the torn handkerchief that the young lady produced out of her pocket to wipe her tears. The gentleman took out his own neatly folded one, gently removing Emma's from her hands and replacing it with his.

Emma took Mr. Knightley's handkerchief gratefully, unfolding it, and rubbed her eyes with it for a moment, then, without warning or hesitation, but with unwavering resolve and determined vigour, blew her perfect pretty little nose soundly in the linen.

Perhaps others might feel differently, but there was no gesture more adorable to Mr. Knightley than Emma's performing the necessities with absolutely no pretentious delicacy of manners – what needed to be done must be done, and done thoroughly! The gentleman exerted his impeccable self control to restrain his urges to laugh, and waited until the young lady finished. Emma looked up, with cleared nose and bright eyes and a mixture of sheepishness and triumphant mischief, holding up his soiled handkerchief with a saucy smile and asked, "Would you like it back?"

Emma's adorable gesture of performing the necessities unpretentiously had just been dethroned by her patterned sauciness – forsaking his gentlemanly politeness, and deserting his impeccable self control, Mr. Knightley threw his head back and simply laughed to his heart's content! And when his heart was fully contented, his answer to the impertient young lady was, "My dear Emma, remember you have given me enough handkerchiefs to last for a decade? You may keep this one for now!"

The lovely giggles of the fourteen-year-old echoed the gentleman's hearty chuckles melodiously in the celestial sky.

"Shall we begin our journey to Hartfield?" the gentleman asked, and was rewarded with a grateful nod and a radiant smile that warmed him from head to toe.

Mr. Knightley led Lady Dupree to Emma, handed the bridle in her hand, letting her placed her foot in his cupped hands, and tossed her up into the saddle.

* * *

Their horseback ride to Hartfield was uneventful – comparing to what had happened earlier that night, had they been deposited into a ditch by their horses, it would still be considered as uneventful! And after galloping several miles in an unprecedented speed, General was happy to be ridden at a much slower pace. The moon was shining softly upon the two equestrians, though the air of the autumn night was biting cold, Mr. Knightley and Emma enjoyed the walking pace of their stallion and mare, particularly Emma who was not as comfortable on the saddle as she was on her feet.

Not much conversation was passed between the gentleman and the young lady as they trotted the road to Hartfield. It was enough to be in the safe and secure company of each other, scarce words simply proved the power of the easy comfort and quiet understanding between the two friends. What's more, it gave them each the time to reflect upon the happenings of the night.

Emma still shuddered as she thought of what could have happened to Agnes and Tess, had she and Nicolas not been able to trick the Frenchmen with their scheme. She also thought about what Mr. Knightley said on her being the captive instead of Agnes and Tess – those thoughts disturbed her and she dared not to dwell in those thoughts for long! Nevertheless, was it a mistake that she had come to the abandoned brewery tonight? Or was it Divine Intervention that had caused her to come? If she had not been there tonight, would the Anderton children have run into the escaped French prisoners? And if they had as they did, what would have happened to Agnes, Tess, and Nicolas had she not been there? There shall never be answers to her musings, only the Gracious Almighty was in complete control! Perhaps, instead of pondering at her unanswered questions, she should be grateful (and indeed she was) that none of them were harmed, the fugitives were captured, and she had her first real adventure, one that was most unforgettable and could make up for all the adventures she had chosen to pass for the rest of her life. And what's more – if she ever wished for a ghost-hunt again, she shall have the mighty fortress, Mr. Knightley, as her escort!

A happy sigh exhaled out of Emma; through the corners of his eyes, Mr. Knightley caught the mirth on her lips, the gentleman had an inkling of what was on her mind!

As for the gentleman, the anxiety he experienced several months ago during the mad search, looking for Emma while she was slumbering in his stable with Wobble, paled in comparison to what he had endured tonight! Tonight's event was real, and the circumstance was infinitely more dangerous. His heart still thudded wildly when he thought of what could have happened to the Anderton children – and – to his dear young friend. It was indeed a miracle that all four of them came out of the plight unharmed! But the gentleman, with his sensibility reigning again, was no longer consumed by the horrific thoughts that the unthinkable could have happened to Emma. Nevertheless, what he underwent tonight had bethought the gentleman of how fragile life could be – was he not one moment celebrating joyfully the harvest with his labourers but the next fearing for the life of his precious friend? He vowed, from this day forward, that he would treasure every moment that he shared with those he cared deeply – such as the one who was riding and seemingly in mirthful reverie beside him!

And oh yes, Mr. Knightley's lips curled, remembering what he had promised Emma earlier tonight – the prospect of him, a grown man, the Master of Donwell Abbey, the magistrate of Surrey, leading a pack of brats on Emma's next ghost-hunt adventure had the gentleman chuckling merrily and shaking his head wondering what predicament he had begotten himself!

* * *

They had arrived at Hartfield. It was late and cold. The Hartfield stable boy had already turned in for the night long before this hour. Mr. Knightley dismounted from General, and proceeded to help Emma dismounting from Lady Dupree.

"You have the key to the side door by the kitchen?" Mr. Knightley asked kindly.

Emma nodded, slipping off Mr. Knightley's coat and handing it back to its owner.

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley!" she said gratefully, "I hope you did not catch cold!"

Mr. Knightley smiled warmly and shook his head. "If I did, I am certain that your father will be sending Serle's gruel to Donwell Abbey!"

"Oh, no, Papa must not!" said Emma, seriously. "Mrs. Mayson will be offended – she prides herself in her cookery skill, I am sure of it even when it comes to gruel!"

"Rest assured, Emma," the gentleman's humorous eyes shone like the stars in the sky, "for as long as I can recall, Mrs. Mayson has never cooked one bowl of gruel during her tenure at Donwell Abbey. I do not think even _she_ would wish to claim fame as an expert in making gruel!"

Emma laughed, but no sooner her head began to lower and her eyes cast down. She spoke softly, "Thank you, Mr. Knightley... I am very sorry about tonight!"

"About... not going to the Harvest Supper?" Mr. Knightley asked searchingly.

"Hum... that and..." she looked up at him with guilt, "about... placing myself in so much danger..."

"Emma," Mr. Knightley said most kindly, "let us just be thankful that you did not suffer any harm tonight, shall we?"

"Hmm!" Emma nodded with eternal relief, but another thought came to her mind marring her angelic feature beneath the moon. "Will you tell Papa what happened, Mr. Knightley?" her concerned eyes glimmered.

Mr. Knightley was thoughtful. "I do not think this would be easy on your father, Emma... perhaps it would be best that he does not know. But," the gentleman added gravely, "what happened tonight shall quickly turn into the talk of town when tomorrow comes, we shall see how much would reach your father's ears."

Emma nodded warily.

"It is too cold out here, Emma! You'd better go inside," Mr. Knightley beckoned earnestly.

Still worrying of what might come the morrow, Emma swallowed a deep breath. She curtsied, "Good night, Mr. Knightley!"

Mr. Knightley smiled, taking his gentlemanly bow, "Good night, Emma!"

He stood there watching Emma took out her key, unlocked the door and went inside.

But when he turned to take his leave, he was surprised to hear the door opening again – Emma had come back out running up to him.

"I nearly forgot!" she said, digging her hands in her coat pocket and producing a neatly folded piece of paper.

"This is for you..." there were twinkles curling up the corners of her lips, Emma said with suppressed excitement, handing the paper to Mr. Knightley.

"What is it?" the gentleman asked curiously, feeling the paper in his hand.

"Hum... you had often said how much you missed it..." Emma said demurely, "I wanted to find this from the brewery... for _you_..."

"What is _it_, Emma?" Mr. Knightley asked again, with even more curiosity.

But Emma's lips were sealed! Her dazzling hazel eyes danced luminously along the moonshine, and she would only say, "See it for yourself!"

The young lady gave the gentleman a glowing smile, "Goodnight, Mr. Knightley!" and she curtsied one last time before dashing away.

The bewildered gentleman stood there watching Emma's lilting silhouette fading behind the kitchen side door. Holding the neatly folded paper in his hand, Mr. Knightley stared at the mystery for a moment, perplexed by what it could be. Unable to conjecture what the paper entailed, he moved to a place where he was directly under the moonlight so he could see better what Emma had given him.

He unfolded the piece of paper, on which the title of the content was hand-printed clearly across the top of the page. One look at the title, the gentleman broke into dismayed chuckles! Emma would have been proud had she been able to witness the brilliant sparkles in Mr. Knightley's eyes beaming across the labour of her adventure.

Shaking his head with infinite amusement, Mr. Knightley was veritably amazed by the great length that his whimsical young friend had taken to acquire him this thoughtful gift.

"_Only Emma_!" from the gentleman's warmed heart escaped a merry whisper.

His twinkling eyes studied the content of the unfolded mystery, moving from the top of the page all the way to the bottom and then back to the top again. With an endearing smile that could not spread any wider, and a heart drenching in appreciation and delight, Mr. Knightley read the title of the mystery again...

"_England's Best Spruce-B__eer__ Recipe_!"

* * *

**A/N:** Yep, this was the recipe to the spruce-beer that was mentioned in chapter 40, where Emma said, "_I perfectly remember it. – Talking about spruce-beer. – Oh! yes – Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too..."_

No one could doubt that Emma had been dear, very dear, to Mr. Knightley since she was a girl, but I believe Mr. Knightley had been just as dear to Emma for a very, very long time, Emma was only too young to be aware of her feelings... As soon as she heard that the Anderton children were going to the abandoned brewery, the spruce-beer recipe was the sole object in her mind – because Mr. Knightley had liked the spruce-beer from that brewery and missed it since it was abandoned!

Thank you so much for reading! :-)


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

* * *

"You did_ what_?" Isabella gasped breathlessly, flashes of uttered horrors shone in her eyes as if she had seen a ghost. Blood was running cold inside the matron, the retelling of her dear little sister's encounter with the escaped French prisoners had disturbed the big sister so much that her countenance changed from cheery to wan in a blink of an eye.

Emma saw that her baby nephew was quite endangered of slipping out of her sister's hands; she quickly removed little Henry from Isabella and placed him securely on her knee.

"Pray, Isabella, do not look at me as if I had committed a dreadful crime!" Emma pleaded earnestly, settling her nephew on the plush rug by the foot of the settee, on which sat both her and Isabella, in the Hartfield guest chamber that had been turned into a makeshift nursery.

But no sooner had Aunt Emma turned to his mama, the eleven-month-old extended his chubby arms for the edge of the settee. With one tug, little Henry Knightley lifted his bottom off the rug, and another, erecting himself firmly to his feet. The stout little laddie flexed his legs bounding contentedly next to the occupants of the settee. At times the fair-haired bright-eyed baby stood on his ten round toes or a single leg to show off his newly perfected balance, several times the little rascal even let go of the settee and took a tentative step when no one was watching, a proud grin dimpled his cherubic face, only to be succeeded by a peal of dazzling gurgles when the darling boy landed on his fluffy bottom. Baby Henry was as talkative as any eleven-month-old could be, he gibbered and babbled adorably, eager to participate in the conversations between his mama and his aunt.

"Emma..." drawing her breath with slight difficulties, Isabella remonstrated, "Why did you go back to the brewery when you had barely escaped? Do you know that you could have been injured... or... or... even... _killed_?" these horrid thoughts almost caused the stomach of the blooming Isabella with a five month old child in her belly to turn, much like the effect when morning sickness struck.

"I know, I know, Isabella! Mr. Knightley had already given me the same lecture that night – he made sure that I knew how much danger I had placed myself in by not looking for help!" Emma confessed guiltily.

"Oh, Emma... oh _dear_!" Isabella gripped Emma's arm with her trembling fingers, "What if the Frenchman had gotten their hands on you... what were we to do if they hurt you... or took you away..."

"Pray, calm yourself, Isabella!" Emma begged. "I had suffered no harm that night; pray do not fret over what did not happen!" The fourteen-year-old frowned, murmuring to herself, "_Perhaps I should not have told you_!"

"And... and..." still looking horrified, Isabella asked, "Did you say it happened on the night of the Donwell Harvest Supper?"

"Hum, hum..." Emma nodded.

"It is near Christmas, why had not I heard any of it until now?" Isabella asked indignantly, "Why had not you mentioned a word in your letters, Emma?"

"Look at you, Isabella! I was afraid you would be reacting in this very way... I thought it might be easier on you if I told you in person!" Emma explained, regretting her decision on sharing her exciting adventure with her sister, now in person.

"But John must have heard it from George..." Isabella wondered aloud, "Did John neglect to inform me when George wrote him about this?"

"Oh no, Isabella! Mr. Knightley never wrote John about what happened that night!"

"Why did not he? How could George keep this from us?"

"Pray, do not blame Mr. Knightley, Isabella!" Emma implored. "Mr. Knightley and I thought it would be best that Papa did not know!"

Gaping at Emma, Isabella could hardly believe her ears, she uttered, "You do not mean to tell me that... that... Papa does _not_ know what had happened that night! How... how could it be possible?"

"Papa only knows about the French prisoners escaping from Epsom and fleeing to Highbury, but he has no notion of my part in it!" Emma confessed. "Can you imagine how much distress Papa would suffer if he knew? I dare not to think of his many maladies that would have been unleashed; he might even have gone into a decline if you would ask me!"

"But Emma, the news of two French fugitives captured at the abandoned brewery because of you and the Anderton children must have been all over town!"

"Yes indeed! It was _all_ that everyone would speak of for nearly _two_ weeks!" Emma exclaimed. "But as Papa was always contented to be sitting in his armchair by the fire at Hartfield, Miss Taylor and I purposely kept Papa indoors the entire time. We refused all visitors who came to inquire after the brewery incident, and ordered all the servants not to peep a word of it; everyone did a marvellous job keeping their mouths sealed!"

"What about the newspaper, Emma?" Isabella continued her inquiries with disbelief. "The news must have been printed on the Highbury Gazette; how did you manage to keep it from Papa?"

"It was printed on the _front_ _page_ of the Gazette!" exasperated Emma. "But it was not so difficult to keep Papa from reading it. You see, I poked holes and blotted ink on everywhere that my name or the Andertons' appeared, though Papa was a little annoyed by the missing print, for it ruined the advertiser page on the back, he sighed and cursed a little and then read on. Even when he became curious of the news after reading the unblemished part and asked Mr. Knightley about it, Mr. Knightley had made it as dull as he possibly could; Papa soon lost all his interest in it and forgot about the entire thing!"

"But... Emma... surely Miss Bates would have said something!" Isabella said with certainty.

"Of course, Miss Bates would have blurted the whole of it to Papa if she had the chance!" Emma's hazel eyes danced, "But it was my _greatest_ fortune that Mrs. Bates had come down with a dreadful cold that very week, and the following week the same cold inflicted Miss Bates..." tucking away her smug grin, the fourteen-year-old looked up murmuring sincerely to the Almighty, "_Forgive me, dear Lord, I meant no ill will for those two good ladies_!" Then her smugness returned in full scale, speaking to Isabella again, "As the Bates ladies were stricken for two long weeks, the little card-parties that we held at Hartfield could not happen, so I was safe from Miss Bates' chatters, and Papa was safe from hearing my predicament in the abandoned brewery house!"

A flood of relief gushed to Isabella, the colour on her face had finally returned. "_You_, my little sister, were indeed the_ most _fortunate creature!" Nevertheless, the big sister was still troubled by a lingering thought, she knitted her brows and asked, "But why would you and George keep it from us, Emma? You knew that I would never say a word that would distress Papa!"

"Of course you would not!" Emma said a-matter-of-factly. "But... ah... but... _John_ would..." she trailed off.

This revelation was shocking to Isabella! With the desire to do her husband justice, Isabella said with her utmost conviction, "Surely John would _never_ say anything that would distress Papa!"

Emma rolled her eyes and replied with equal conviction, "No! John would _never_ say anything to distress Papa _intentionally_! But you know how Papa's nervousness annoys John, and when John is annoyed, he often says things he does not mean – what if he blurted out what happened just to torment Papa?"

"John does _not_ torment Papa!" The devoted wife declared indignantly.

"Protest all you want, Isabella," Emma said saucily, "but we _both_ know how John could be at times!"

Isabella frowned, looking displeased.

In order to escape her sister's rare unpleasant glare, Emma turned her attention to her baby nephew, who had been amusing himself with the amethyst bracelet on his aunt's wrist. Removing herself from the settee, Emma knelt in front of little Henry, clasping the laddie to her chest to take in the sweet fragrant of his feathery hair. It was impossible to tell who was more adorable – the mischievous aunt who stuck her tongue out, crossed her eyes, and wrinkled her nose pulling a silly face at the baby, or the eleven-month-old nephew with drool spread all over his chin relishing his five little fingers all at once in his mouth!

Emma's funny antics brought a peal of adorable giggles from Baby Henry, causing him bounding up and down enthusiastically on his feet.

"Look at you, Henry!" Emma cooed sweetly, "Your chubby legs are almost as strong as your Uncle Knightley's; you shall be walking very soon! And one day," rubbing the tip of her nose against the baby's, "you shall be the great Master of Donwell Abbey just like your Uncle Knightley!" The proud aunt could not stop smiling and singing praises of her nephew – and his uncle.

The sound of Henry's giggles instantly melted his mama's heart as well as her frown, and brought out the mother's brightest, loveliest, and most contented smiles.

"My dear Emma," Isabella smiled tenderly at her son while speaking to Emma, "John had long decided that Henry shall be a barrister like him!" Remained seated on the settee, the contented mother clapped her hands, calling out lovingly to her son, "Come, Henry! Come to Mama, my darling!"

The velvety tone of his mother's voice thrilled little Henry to pieces, the laddie squealed excitedly and stretched out his arms, thrusting his round body toward the source of his joy.

Isabella received her son full of tender affection, placing him on her knee, and smacked a sound kiss on his dimpled cheek. "Besides," continued speaking to Emma without lifting her gaze off Henry, "George's own son shall inherit Donwell, not our little Henry."

"But Mr. Knightley shall not marry!" declared Emma, with as much certainty as the sun rose from the east.

"Where did you get such notion, Emma?" Isabella laughed, "Just because George has not yet found a woman to love and marry, does not mean he would never marry!"

"But I am sure Mr. Knightley has no intention of looking for a wife!" the young lady assured.

Finally removing her gaze from her son to look at her sister, Isabella asked quizzically, "And how can you be so sure, my dear?"

"Mr. Knightley is thirty years of age, if he has not fallen in love with a woman in the same foolish way that _y'_..." Emma checked herself and stopped abruptly.

Looking at her little sister with bewilderment, Isabella inquired, "What foolish way, my dear Emma?"

"Ah... ah..." Emma stammered. S_he __had __wished to say that if Mr. Knightley had not fallen in love with a woman in the same foolish way that Isabella and John did with each other, it was better that he would never fall in love, much like what she had decided for herself_!

The big sister, being quite at a loss, looked at her little sister perplexedly, waiting for her to go on.

"Never mind what I said..." Emma thought it was best that she would not speak her mind, "Just be sure to teach Henry farming as well as law!" the fourteen-year-old bestowed her youthful wisdom upon her older sister.

If Isabella looked lost, that was because she was! It was not the first time what her little sister said had perplexed this big sister, and she knew it was not necessary to understand everything that her clever little sister said to her – Isabella shrugged and decided to change the subject.

"You seem to have formed the most delightful friendship with Miss Anderton, Emma. We must meet her during our fortnight at Hartfield!" exclaimed Isabella.

"I am not certain if you would meet Agnes at Hartfield, Isabella!" Emma sighed. "Ever since the night at the brewery, Mr. Anderton has forbidden Agnes to come..."

"But did not you say that Miss Anderton used to come to Hartfield nearly every day? And her father did approve it, did he not?"

"Yes, Agnes used to come nearly every day, but _no_, her papa did not approve it! Agnes took pain to not let her papa know."

"But why, Emma? Is Mr. Anderton ashamed of his daughter befriending a Woodhouse? I cannot imagine anyone would not wish his daughter befriending us the Woodhouses, especially you, my love!"

Emma shrugged, "Agnes never told me why, but it seems that Mr. Anderton dislikes rich people excessively, she said that her father would never approve her befriending a rich girl like me."

"What scruples could Mr. Anderton have against rich people, Emma?" Isabella's brows furrowed. "Should not he be grateful for your bravery in saving his daughters from the French prisoners? And what about his employment at the Donwell home-farm, it was gracious of George to offer him employment when no one else would!"

"Everything that you said was true, Isabella! Mr. Anderton _was_ indeed grateful for my service to his children at the brewery, he thanked me wholeheartedly many, many times that night. And according to Agnes he is very grateful to Mr. Knightley and has a great deal of respect for him... but nothing seemed to change his disapproval for the friendship between Agnes and me... perhaps he does not trust people who are above his station..."

Feeling helpless for her little sister, Isabella drew a long sigh, "I am truly sorry, Emma!"

* * *

It was Mr. John Knightley's family's first visit to Highbury since the birth of their son Henry. It had been more than a year since Mr. Woodhouse last saw his eldest daughter Isabella. Throughout the long course of their separation, the old father had often lamented how he longed for the presence of his precious child. The past Easter was going to be the debut of Baby Henry in his beloved mother's arms in Hartfield, but as Henry had been a colicky baby, the fear that his incessant crying and the haggard looks on both mother and child would greatly distress Mr. Woodhouse had deemed their sojourn to Highbury unwise, hence the entire notion was discarded.

Since then Baby Henry's colic had faded, and the little darling had been growing exceptionally well, his appetite for his mama's nursing exploded overnight and carried on even now. Though a large part of his nourishment no longer came from his mama, the immeasurable comfort and attachment between the mother and the child had made it difficult for the mother to wean her child from her breasts.

Baby Henry fell into sweet slumbers while suckling his mama in the nursery, and with the help of Emma, blooming Isabella laid Henry gently in his crib. Trusting her son in the care of the nursery maid, the loving mother retreated to her chamber to change into her evening dress before descending to the dining-room to partake supper on the first night of their reunion at Hartfield.

* * *

Settling in the warm inviting dining-room illuminated by numerous glowing candles, John and Isabella were jubilant to be amongst their families whom they dearly loved. Isabella was the more talkative of the two. Delighted by the endless solicitudes from her father, and never tired of even his most tedious inquiries, she dutifully revealed to the doting father the large number of woollen shawls, great coats, and heavy cloaks that she brought to the sojourn. And to prove to Mr. Woodhouse that she had not in the least caught cold during the sixteen miles journey from London to Highbury, she squeezed her papa's thin icy hand with her soft cosy ones, dispelling the frown from the anxious father's face. The loving daugher even impressed upon her nervous father that her maid had placed not one, but two, hot bricks under her feet in the carriage to keep the mistress and her young master comfortable for their journey.

John, being far more an observer than a chatterer, as expected, participated in the gathering in his usual quiet manner. A polite nod to all, a sincere "Yes, sir" to his father-in-law, a tender "To be sure, my love" to his beloved wife, or a respectful yet concise answer to his brother were all that was required to prove that the son-in-law was just as amiable as his wife, and as gentlemanlike as his older brother. Even the little saucy teasing from his mischievous sister brought forth nothing but the warmest of smiles from the agreeable brother-in-law.

Their first evening at Hartfield was passing splendidly, and so were the culinary creations of Serle! The first course of Spanish Chestnut Soup with a touch of cayenne and mace was raved and relished, and the same must be said for the second course of Scalloped Oysters with buttered breadcrumbs freshly browned in the oven served quickly and very hot.

Isabella finished the last scalloped oyster on her plate, dabbed her pretty mouth demurely with her napkin; she looked up, eyes shining brightly, and announced to the occupants at the dining-table with irrepressible joy, "We have great news for you all!"

John looked up from his wine glass and exchanged a loving gaze with Isabella, instantly he knew what news his wife had in mind to impart. Being quite a private gentleman, even in the midst of those he loved, his first reaction, naturally, was to make light of the matter. "Surely, my love," he said smilingly, "you would not wish to bore our family with such trivia!"

"What is it, Isabella?" Emma, the youngest in the family but the most inquisitive, asked first with excitement.

"Yes, what is it Isabella?" Miss Taylor, who always enjoyed good tidings, echoed her charge.

Mr. Knightley's eyes twinkled; judging from the curls lingering on John's lips, the gentleman had an inkling of what the news was, as John had alluded to the intelligence in his last missive. He set aside his wine glass and looked at his younger brother with pride, waiting for the news to be announced.

Everyone in the dining-room seemed eager for the news; even the ears of the footman and the maid standing behind had perked up – except – Mr. Woodhouse! Since Isabella ate her last piece of oyster, the old father had been keeping his eyes at the dining-room entrance, looking decidedly distracted, seemingly waiting, with great anxiety, for something of import to emerge.

Isabella cleared her throat; the blooming mother was glowing beautifully under the luminous candles. "The Treasurer at Gray's Inn said that John shall be elected as a Bencher at the Inn when the next election comes!" The pride in Isabella's voice radiated the entire dining-room.

Hard at work in hiding the joy behind the twitches on his lips, John first looked to Mr. Knightley – he saw his older brother's delightful smiles and nods of approval, and caught the proud gleam in his eyes – the barrister's heart swelled, for his older brother's approval and respect held the foremost importance in this younger brother's heart.

"That is indeed wonderful news! Congratulations, Mr. John Knightley!" Miss Taylor was the first to felicitate the barrister.

"What is a _Bencher_?" interjected Emma, looking at Isabella then John with curious round eyes.

John, at last, allowed the twitches on his mouth turning into a smile, but as it was not his nature to boast, he said simply, "It is merely nothing, Emma."

"_Merely_ _nothing_?" Mr. Knightley could not help but interposed, cocking a dismayed eyebrow. "_This_ is quite an accomplishment, John! You have not even been a member at Gray's Inn for two years, and are able to secure a seat on the Bench; _this_, by no means is _nothing,_ my brother!" Mr. Knightley felicitated John proudly; the younger brother returned his old brother's felicitation with gratitude.

"Could someone pray tell me what a Bencher is?" the inquisitive Emma was still waiting for an answer.

At this very moment, another footman came into the dining-room parading the third course of the supper. The long-distracted Mr. Woodhouse almost jumped at the sight of the succulent Roast Sucking-Pig on a beautifully adorned platter.

"Ah! Here at last!" the old father exclaimed, looking at his eldest daughter with gleaming eyes, "This is your _favourite _since you were a little girl, my dear Isabella!" eagerly gesturing the footman to serve the first piece of the sucking-pig to his beloved daughter.

Isabella quickly laid eyes on the roast pig and said sweetly, "Of course, Papa!" No sooner had she smiled to acknowledge her father's excitement, she turned to Emma gleefully, "Oh, Emma! A Bencher is a member of Pension, the governing body of the Honourable Society of Gray's Inn..."

"Isabella my dear," Mr. Woodhouse cut Isabella off abruptly, unintentionally however, "I ordered Serle to make this for _you_!" The doting father urged expectantly his daughter to take her bite.

Isabella thanked her father with a lovely smile, but too eager to answer Emma's question to satisfaction, she went on to speak to her sister with little delay, "And only the most senior barrister..."

"My dear child, would not you take a piece of the roast pig while it is still hot?" cutting off Isabella in midway of her speech, the old father bade earnestly again, anxious for his beloved daughter to partake her favourite.

"Thank you, Father!" Isabella said to Mr. Woodhouse sincerely, but unable to hide her own excitement for her husband's achievement, she no sooner turned her attention back to Emma again, "Only the most senior barrister..."

Since the day he asked Mr. Woodhouse for the hand of the gentleman's eldest daughter, and when the father questioned how the youngest Knightley, being the younger son of a prominent family having no claim to the Donwell estate, was to support his precious Isabella, thus refusing his offer, John had felt that there was scarcely any regards held for him in Mr. Woodhouse's heart. The young solicitor decided, with his own hands, to make himself a gentleman of gentlemen, and determined to remove to London to pursue the career of a barrister. Thanks to his little sister-in-law's coaxing, John was able to acquire the consent of the old father for the hand of his true love, and carried off his bride to where his future destined. Nevertheless, even after almost two years of fortitude, working industriously through the days and tirelessly into the small hours of the nights, providing sufficiently, dared he say more than sufficiently, to his wife and child, rising in his profession at rapid pace, approval from his father-in-law was still too distant to be reached. His disappointment gave John a sharp pang in his heart!

"My love," John spoke up curtly, "eat your roast pig as your father says! Not _everyone_" he shot a bitter glare at the old father, "is interested in what your husband makes of himself!"

Upon the depressed tone of her husband, Isabella immediately shifted her gaze to John and caught the gravity in his eyes. How often in the privacy of their own chamber, be it in Brunswick Square or Hartfield, had they had the conversation regarding her father's lack of regards for John! For a million times she had looked into her husband's intelligent eyes, it pained her to see the change from pride and exhilaration to disappointment and dejection in those eyes in a matter of moments. Isabella swallowed the words she was about to say to Emma, along with the lump constricting her throat, quickly looked down at her plate to hide the tears suffusing her eyes.

Just as Isabella's countenance had suddenly changed, Emma's own feelings for John went from respect and felicitation to displease and disapproval by the icy words he decreed upon her dear sister.

Mr. Knightley saw all that were happening in front of his eyes – Mr. Woodhouse's oblivion to his brother's accomplishment, the bitterness in John, the tears dangling on Isabella's lashes, the frown of reprobation on Emma's face. The older brother felt the pang in John's heart in his own, for he also knew how much his younger brother wished to prove himself a worthy husband and son to Mr. Woodhouse, but the gentleman so thoroughly in him was not pleased with his brother's brusque way of handling his disappointment, for the mark of a true gentleman laid not only in his tangible achievements, but in his characters and for being the master of his own demons as well.

"My dear Isabella," unaware of the change in the air round the dining-table, the indulgent father bade anxiously at his child again, "Pray, take a bite of the sucking-pig before it is cold!"

Isabella obediently picked up her fork and lifted a small forkful of the meat from the plate, but when the fork came close to her mouth, a convulsive wince suddenly took over her face, and the fork in her hand slipped unwillingly on her china plate.

"What is the matter, my child?" startled, Mr. Woodhouse asked urgently.

"_Sage_... there is... _sage_..." Isabella uttered with difficulties, struggling to lift her napkin over her mouth and nose, blocking the scent which she knew well could bestow upon her the most undesirable effect.

"Of course there is sage in the dish; Serle always put sage in his roast pig!" Mr. Woodhouse looked to Miss Taylor and Emma for affirmation of his declaration, both his employee and his youngest daughter nodded quickly.

"But... I cannot... I cannot... take sage!" the pregnant mother imparted.

"Why _not_?" demanded the shocked father.

Instead of answering her father, Isabella flinched.

"What is wrong with sage, Isabella?" the father insisted.

Emma's heart beat hastened. The scene, where her father tormented Isabella by repeatedly blaming John, happened on the morning after her thirteenth birthday when Isabella was carrying Henry in her belly seemed about to happen again!

Miss Taylor recalled the very same – but more on Emma's incessant curiosity of where babies came from – even the thought of it made the governess blush.

Mr. Knightley, being a man of knowledge and wisdom, knew the reason that Isabella would not say, but it was John who spoke out to Mr. Woodhouse.

"The scent of sage gives my wife nausea, sir," said John, drily.

Mr. Woodhouse turned to look at John bewilderedly, "Why would sage give Isabella nausea? She has had sage and Roast Sucking-pig since she was a girl!"

"I am surprised you had to ask!" snorted John. Making little effort to hide the contempt that sprang from disappointment, He said coldly, "Foods that were perfectly pleasant to a woman when she was a girl, could turn violently against her when she is with child! You must remember it, sir, for _you _had fathered two daughters yourself!"

An involuntary loud gasp escaped the maid standing a little away from the dining-table, but, the astonished eyes of the occupants at the table were all staring at John!

"But... but..." Mr. Woodhouse drawled, "I ordered Serle to make the pig for Isabella!" Disappointment, agitation, regret, and disbelief all commingled on the old man's face.

The tender-hearted daughter could not bear her father's disappointment, Isabella lowered the napkin that was covering her nose and mouth, picked up her fork with the roast pig on it, and began to deliver it to her mouth.

"Do not, Isabella!" John cried, "Remember what happened the time you had that veal sausage seasoned with sage at the Wingate's?"

Isabella hesitated, blushed, and slowly laid down her fork.

"It is _ALL _your fault!" the disappointed father turned to reproach his son-in-law.

The son-in-law, in return, stared incredulously at the father.

"If Isabella were never with child, she would never have to suffer like this!" grudged the old father.

The incredulous look on John's face turned indignant. "Are you saying, sir, that you care _not_ for the birth of your own grandson?" the offended barrister interrogated with dismay. "Your daughter and I have given you a beautiful grandson, and yet, you would rather prefer a _roast pig_ than your grandchild?"

"Of course Henry is a beautiful child," Mr. Woodhouse returned, "but if you were a more patient husband and waited longer to act upon my daughter after Henry's birth, _Poor _Isabella would not have to suffer the agony of carriage so soon!"

"Well," there was vengeance in the barrister's eyes, "not _all_ husbands are as patient as _you_, sir!" John retorted. "You are the _only_ man I know who waited almost seven years to pursue his wife for his second child!"

The maid gasped again, but this time, the two footmen, and all the occupants at the dining-table gasped along with the maid!

"It is true that I was a very patient husband," Mr. Woodhouse said with an air of self-felicitation, "and one cannot expect a more patient man alive! But surely John, do not you think a mere few months was too _soon_?"

Oh wretched! This dreadful conversation had gone too far! The colour on Isabella's face had turned scarlet. Rapidly, she was quailing behind the table and wishing she could crawl under it for the rest of her life.

But John was unshaken by Mr. Woodhouse's remarks! The defiance in him compelled the barrister to smirk and speak sarcastically, "It was _three_ months to be precise! Nevertheless, my _felicitation__s _to you, sir! You have proven that being senile does not necessarily infirm one's ability in arithmetic! But might I remind you, sir, that what my wife and I do in the privacy of our chamber is _no_ concern of _yours_?"

John suddenly shot a sinister glance at Emma. A dreadful presentiment came over the fourteen-year-old instantly, but before her mind could decipher what her brother-in-law was about, John had added wickedly to his already shocking speech, "You would do better, sir, by keeping your eyes on your youngest daughter, so that she would not be placing herself in great danger!"

Emma gasped! She immediately ducked her head to whisper to Isabella, with utmost dismay, "You _told_ John!"

The shrinking Isabella whispered back, "John and I do not keep secrets!" Wishing to wring her sister's neck, Emma turned her eyes to Mr. Knightley in desperation.

Mr. Woodhouse knitted his brows and stared at John. "What could you mean?" asked the father quizzically.

"Oh, Emma never told you?" John said with an airy smirk. "She was almost captured..."

"John!" called out Mr. Knightley, who had been watching his brother's vulgarity with eagle eyes, giving John the benefit of the doubt that the sensible man in him would curb his temper in time, was now losing all his patience. The gentleman gave his young friend a reassuring look in the eyes and said to his brother coolly, "It would suit you better, John, to keep the innocent out of the discussion of your family matters."

"But Emma _is_ family, is not she, George?" John asked, dangerous sparkles emitting from his eyes.

"What is it about Emma?" The old father looked immensely concerned.

"On the night of the Donwell Harvest Supper," turning to his father-in-law, John began, "Emma stole away from Hartfield and was almost captured..."

"John!" Mr. Knightley spoke out firmly. After a deliberate pause to gather the attention of his audiences, the gentleman said, "There is a barrister question that I have been meaning to ask you."

Mr. Knightley's tactic seemed to work – John turned and looked suspiciously into his brother's eyes and replied bluntly, "What is it, George?"

Mr. Knightley looked round the table first, then carefully directed his penetrating gaze at John, and said to him in a steady voice, "With your experience at court, do you think that the criminals ever consider the consequences of their doings before committing their crimes?"

The gaze in John at his older brother was as penetrating as Mr. Knightley's at him. The barrister was silent.

"As the penalty for crimes" Mr. Knightley continued, "can be incredibly harsh, such as in the case of Mary Murray, pocketpicking of three half guineas and a one pound bank note, was punishable by death, do you think Miss Murray had _ever_ contemplated the consequences of her action, or _words__, _before she committed the theft – I mean – had she _ever_ considered those she could _hurt _by what she did, or _said_?"

John's flaming red face suddenly turned stone pale. It was only after a moment of dead silence, staring blankly into Mr. Knightley's direction, the barrister finally uttered incoherently, "Those... the ones... I mean... most... most of these convicted felons are... _reckless_..."

The accomplished barrister knew that his older brother had not the least intention to speak of the case of Mary Murray – of which he had written to his brother regarding the stringency of England's judicial system after the prisoner was sentenced – but was wisely guiding this reckless younger brother back to his lost sensibilities. John blinked and swallowed the incorrigibility pervaded in him, and in an instant, his eyes were opened to see his distraught wife, eyes suffusing with tears, so embarrassed that he knew she must be wishing she had never been born!

For all the schooling and accomplishments the barrister supposedly had, what good would they do if he could not control himself and let not his temper fall prey to his own demons? How was he different from the despicable criminals he had tried in court, for casting his wife to such state of despair? What a wretched idiot of a man he had been to allow his renegade pride to rule his good sense. It pained John to realize how much he had wounded his precious Isabella, the mother of his child, the love of his life, for such inexcusable nonsense!

How the shamefaced husband wished he could reach across the table at once and took his wife in his arms to show her his penitence! Bidden by his returned sensibilities, the barrister refrained himself from causing more embarrassments for his love, willingly submitting to propriety, though not nearly enough to make up for all that he had broken this evening, it was not too late to be agreeable at once. Nevertheless, the intelligent husband did conjure up an amiable way to mend his darling wife's broken spirit – with his eyes gazing affectionately into hers over the dining-table, apologizing silently with the tenderness in his deep dark eyes, he stretched forward his long legs reaching for Isabella's under the table, escaping all watchful eyes, John glided the smooth leather of his Hessian boots tenderly against his wife's stockinged calves, begging intimately for her forgiveness.

The scarlet colour on Isabella's face faded completely, and a deep crimson blush seeped upon her very pretty face, restoring her to the lovely countenance of a blooming mother. The devoted wife casted her eyes down demurely, relishing the delicious penitence of her beloved husband in secret. Though none of the other occupants at the dining-table was aware of what was transpiring right under their noses (as most of it was happening under the table!) the pretty blushes, the tender looks, the tantalizing curls tingling on the corners of their lips, the stolen glances under fluttering lashes were enough evidence that peace and tranquillity had been restored between the lovely couple.

Of course, everyone noticed – except Mr. Woodhouse!

Bewilderment was still shadowing the old father's face. As Mr. Knightley had gotten his answer from John, Mr. Woodhouse thought it was time to renew his inquiry. "What was it that Emma did on the night of the Donwell Harvest Supper?"

The old father looked first to his son-in-law, whose loving gaze planted unwaveringly at his eldest daughter's. John only shook his head slightly to reveal that he had nothing further to add to the matter.

Mr. Woodhouse then looked to Mr. Knightley imploringly, and was rewarded with a response from the gentleman.

"On the night of the Donwell Harvest Supper," Mr. Knightley began steadily, "Emma stole away from Hartfield..."

"Mr. Knightley!" Emma cried out, her panicked eyes begged her friend not to go on.

Mr. Knightley smiled and nodded at Emma.

"You must remember, sir, that on the night of the Donwell Harvest Supper," Mr. Knightley continued while Emma shifted in her seat looking down nervously at her hands, "Emma had declined my invitation to the supper."

Mr. Woodhouse nodded, Emma swallowed hard.

"But Emma decided to come to the supper after all," said Mr. Knightley.

Emma's hazel eyes blinked! "I _did_?" yelped the young mistress, noticing the sparkles in her friend's sagacious eyes.

"She _did_?" surprised Mr. Woodhouse.

"Of course, I _did_!" the cunning fourteen-year-old quickly changed her oration.

"Indeed, sir," replied Mr. Knightley. "Once dusk set in, Emma stole away from Hartfield and came to the Abbey."

"But," the old father turned to his daughter, "Emma my dear, why did you have to steal away? You knew that Papa would never object you visiting Donwell Abbey!"

"Ah... ah..." Emma stammered, "Papa... you know... how... how I dislike stirring you excessively... you were perfectly comfortable sitting by the fire dozing off in your chair, I thought... I thought... it would be better to leave you that way rather than disturbing you..."

"Ah! You are such a thoughtful daughter, Emma my dear!" The old father nodded indulgently. "So, was it that you were almost captured by a _cold_?" asked Mr. Woodhouse, mortified by the sound of the dreadful word.

"Ah... ah... _almost_... but not _quite_, Papa!" An innocent smile was plastered on the fourteen-year-old's face.

"Emma my dear, you ought to be more careful when you go out into the night! The air is particularly cold and damp after dusk; one could catch their death if one is careless!"

"Yes, Papa, I have learnt my lesson!" Emma replied obediently, but looking into Mr. Knightley's eyes sincerely, she said, "I shall _never_ do that again!"

The old father was satisfied by his daughter's answer. And as soon as Mr. Woodhouse returned his full attention to his gruel, the grateful youth drew a deep sigh of relief, caught Mr. Knightley's eyes again, mouthing "_Thank you__!_" silently to him.

Now that his younger brother was safely returned to his senses, his sister-in-law no longer distressed, Mr. Woodhouse had forgotten (already!) the drama of the Roast Sucking-pig with sage, and the secret of his innocent young friend – Or was she really innocent? Mr. Knightley had to stifle his laughs! At least she was innocent in tonight's family discourse – was safe from her father's discovery, the gentleman mused that it was time, once again, for some light-hearted banters to pleasantly pass the rest of this eventful supper.

"Oh, John, you would never guess whom I saw today!" said Mr. Knightley, cutting at the piece of sucking-pig on his plate.

"_W-w__-__ho_?" John responded with difficulty, trying discreetly to extract the piece of the crispy pig skin stuck between his teeth with his tongue.

"Mr. Dickenson!" said Mr. Knightley.

"Who is Mr. Dickenson?" inquisitive Emma, recovered and animated, chimed in and asked.

"He was a long time friend of our Father, has known John and I since we were boys," supplied Mr. Knightley.

"Where is he come from?" asked Emma.

"Mr. Dickenson is from Rochester, Emma," answered Mr. Knightley.

"Is he your friend now, Mr. Knightley?" Emma asked naturally, and Mr. Knightley loved Emma's curiosity.

"Oh yes," the piece of pig skin was at last out of John's teeth, he spoke to Emma, "George has succeeded Father's place not just being the Master of Donwell, but a good friend of Mr. Dickenson. He sees him every year in all the agricultural fairs and events."

"But there is not a fair in Highbury or Donwell at this time of the year!" clever Emma remarked.

"Right!" John agreed, turning to his brother, "What brought Mr. Dickenson to Donwell this time of the year?"

"I have not the slightest notion," Mr. Knightley admitted. He took another bite of the sucking-pig and a sip of his wine, and then continued lightly, "I only saw him from a distance, and by the time I walked closer he had already left in his carriage."

"And he did not call at the Abbey?" asked John.

"No, which was most surprising to me; as Mr. Dickenson is so fond of society, he would never neglect to visit a friend when he had the chance."

"Humph, I wonder why he came to Donwell..." said John.

"I wonder the same..." echoed Mr. Knightley.

"Me too!" declared Emma.

And it was not to be another two weeks, on the day after Mr. John Knightley's family's departure from Hartfield, that this wonderment would be resolved.

* * *

**A/N: **Hope you didn't mind the length of this chapter, as this was the only chapter that featured John Knightley's family, I thought the length was justified.

For those of you who have read my other long story, A Lady and A 'Gentleman', Mr. Dickenson in this chapter is the same Mr. Dickenson in that story. I love this character very much and thought I would bring him into this story for a brief appearance.

Once again, thank you for reading! And have a joyous Easter! :D


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty-One**

* * *

"Mr. Dickenson, sir," the Donwell footman walked into the library and announced.

It was only a minute ago, on this cold, windy January night, that Mr. Knightley had gotten up from the armchair to stoke the fire in the hearth, next to which laid the golden Wobble slumbering and snoring cosily on his blanket. The Donwell Master had just sat back down with a book in his hand when his footman came in; he was surprised to hear the name of his caller.

"Mr. Dickenson... of_ Rochester_?" Mr. Knightley asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I shall receive him in the drawing room."

* * *

When Mr. Knightley walked into the drawing room, his caller was warming his hands by the glowing fire.

"Good evening, Mr. Dickenson!" he greeted his guest with as much warmth as the fire in the hearth.

Mr. Dickenson immediately turned round, "Ah, Mr. Knightley! How good to see you!" returning the warm greeting with alacrity. With enthusiasm and familiarities, the two gentlemen shook hands.

"Please forgive this old man for intruding on you unannounced tonight!" Mr. Dickenson bade in his usual jovial spirit.

"I must own that your visit is indeed a surprise," Mr. Knightley said amiably, "but certainly not an intrusion, Mr. Dickenson!"

"Then you are a better friend than this old man deserves, Mr. Knightley!" A shout of Mr. Dickenson's magnificent laughter filled the expanse of the room.

And when the old gentleman's laughter subsided, he surveyed the drawing room, and a moment of reflection came over him. "When was the last time I was at Donwell Abbey..." he wondered aloud, "it must be... fourteen... fifteen years ago..."

"It was precisely fifteen years ago, sir. The last time you were at the Abbey, Father had invited you to a hunting expedition, I was fifteen, and John was eight," Mr. Knightley recollected fondly.

"Indeed it has been a long time..." Mr. Dickenson slowly turned round, raising his quizzing glass over his nose, and rested his gaze on the portrait hanging above the mantelpiece, admiring the Knightley's family portrait, where the impeccable Mr. Knightley holding the hand of his seven year old eldest son, standing next to the settee that sat his beautiful wife with their infant son in her arms.

"I have always found this the work of a master!" exclaimed the old gentleman.

Mr. Knightley was silent, temporarily lost in the admiration of his own family portrait.

A quiet sigh came out of Mr. Dickenson, "How I miss my old friend!"

Mr. Knightley smiled softly, as he had often missed his father as well.

After Mr. Knightley invited Mr. Dickenson to sit and take port, the gentleman could no longer suppress his curiosity, he had to ask. "Mr. Dickenson, a fortnight ago you had made a visit to Donwell, which, I took, was a very brief visit, and tonight you had come to the Abbey so suddenly in this blustery night, am I too hasty to assume that some extraordinary reasons must have brought you to Donwell these two occasions?"

Mr. Dickenson smiled, "So you know I was in Donwell two weeks ago!"

"Only by chance. I was visiting my tenant, and saw you stepping into your carriage when I came out of the cottage."

"And my carriage must have driven off when you came close. How incredibly rude you must think this old man was, coming all the way to Donwell without even paying you a call, Mr. Knightley!" Mr. Dickenson said apologetically.

"Oh, no!" Mr. Knightley said gracefully, "I reckoned that you must be on a mission with extreme urgency, you were certainly not rude, Mr. Dickenson."

"And I appeared at your doorsteps unannounced tonight, which must have piqued your curiosity to no end?"

Mr. Knightley smiled.

"George, remember how you and John used to love stories when you were young boys?" asked Mr. Dickenson.

A boyish grin spread across Mr. Knightley's face. "Only because you were such an excellent storyteller, sir. John and I loved the pirate stories that you told us, particularly how Captain Avery eluded his captures. As children, we simply could not get enough of your tales!"

Another shout of magnificent laughter came out of the old gentleman.

"Should I take that you have a story to tell me this evening?" amused, Mr. Knightley asked.

Mr. Dickenson looked Mr. Knightley in the eye and nodded, but the laughter that he carried so often was replaced with a sense of heaviness that he seldom wore.

The solemnity in the cheerful gentleman took Mr. Knightley by surprise, fully aware that it must not be the adventure of an escaped pirate that he was about to hear, Mr. Knightley tucked away his grin, perked up his ears, preparing himself for the tale that might explain the unusual visits of his guest.

"George, how many times have you heard of a story where the young master of a large estate falls in love with the pretty young maid of the family?"

"Where the master seduces the young woman who works for his family and takes her virtues? Far too many! Pardon me for expressing my opinion freely, sir, at times I am ashamed to be classed with those who have less morals than pigs!"

Mr. Dickenson gave Mr. Knightly a glance of admiration, nodding approvingly and said, "My old friend had taught his son well!"

Feeling a little embarrassed by his sudden outburst, Mr. Knightley only smiled softly to acknowledge the compliment.

"But let me assure you that this is _not _one of those stories, George! In fact, I dare say you will find this quite a different tale."

The excellent storyteller only had to say as much to have his sole audience already enthralled. Mr. Knightley, silently and patiently, awaited the tale.

Mr. Dickenson drew a deep breath and began...

"This story opens when the young master was only seven years of age. A milkmaid and her daughter had come to work for his family. The daughter of the milkmaid and the young master were of the same age. The young master was the only child in the family; he was a quiet child, a lonely child, and a sickly child who seldom went out of doors because of his poor constitution. The daughter of the milkmaid was quite different. She was a lively little girl, when she was not needed by her mother for chores, she often spent her time climbing trees, swimming in the streams, catching frogs, or picking wildflowers. One day, through the window of his chamber, the young master was taken by the sight of the little girl skipping and singing in his garden. Curiosity drove him to find out that the little girl was the daughter of the milkmaid, loneliness took him to the garden to see what the girl was like."

The storyteller paused, picked up his port, and took a sip.

"And now I shall move my tale to thirteen years later, when they were twenty. The young master was no longer a sickly boy, his constitution had improved considerably; just like the sons of many gentlemen, was about to be sent off to Oxford to pursue his education. The milkmaid had died, but her daughter had succeeded her mother and become the milkmaid at the family. At twenty, she was just as lively as when she was seven. Unbeknown to the young master's parents, over these thirteen years, the young master and this daughter of the milkmaid had formed the most beautiful friendship. Their innocent friendship had grown into calf love, and from calf love into the love between a man and a woman. So when the young master was told that he must be off to Oxford, the two lovers were devastated!

"Mr. Knightley," Mr. Dickenson suddenly asked, "what do you think the future would hold for these two young lovers?"

"I am afraid there was not much of a future for them. As the union between a gentleman's son and a milkmaid would have been a disgrace to the family, the love between them really stood very little chance." That was Mr. Knightley's respectable answer.

"Ah, Mr. Knightley, you are certainly right about the union of the two would be a disgrace. In fact, that was precisely the response the young master received when he spoke to his father regarding marrying their maid. His father was so furious that he threatened to send him off to Oxford that very night. But do you think that was the end of the story, Mr. Knightley?"

"I take it that it did not end there."

Mr. Dickenson smiled, "You are right again, Mr. Knightley. What would you say if I told you that the young master eloped with the milkmaid and they formed their union in Gretna Green?"

The eyebrows of Mr. Knightley were raised.

Mr. Dickenson nodded. "I had the same reaction when I heard this story. But I was told that the love between the young master and the maid was one much like the love between Romeo and Juliet, or Orpheus and Eurydice, nothing could have stopped the young master from marrying his true love!"

"But there must be fierce objection upon their return to his family," Mr. Knightley surmised.

"Fierce objection indeed! The father was infuriated when he saw the return of his son with his bride! Like a roaring lion, he cursed at the new couple, threatened to lock up his son, to disown him, he even offered money to his son's new wife if she would leave his son and his family immediately! The father tried everything in his power, and when nothing worked, he struck his son with a furious blow and stormed out of their sight. For two whole days he did not speak to his son or anyone. But when the father at last spoke again, he only laid one condition to his son before he would accept his marriage: The son must be off to Oxford immediately to receive his education while his wife stayed behind and learnt the proper manners of being the wife of a gentleman."

A frown was formed between Mr. Knightley's brows, seemingly unwilling to believe what he just heard. "Something does not sound right, Mr. Dickenson," he said, "the change in the father was too drastic. Most fathers would consider cutting their sons off for marrying someone so far beneath their station, yet, this father wished his son's wife to learn the manners of being the wife of a gentleman?"

"Perhaps the son should have thought of what you said, Mr. Knightley, but unfortunately, he did not. He was too grateful for his father's acceptance of his marriage. Though it was extremely difficult to leave his new bride, the son was off to Oxford the very next day."

Mr. Knightley's frown deepened, doubtful of any good would come from this tale.

"Three months had passed," Mr. Dickenson continued, "the son was returning home from Oxford for the first time, anticipation to see his bride again, of course, overwhelmed the young gentleman!"

"I can imagine that," smiling, Mr. Knightley said.

"Then," Mr. Dickenson's tone turned grave, "you must be able to imagine how the ground beneath his feet shook when he heard that his bride was _dead_!"

"_Dead_?" Mr. Knightley was shocked.

"I believe that was exactly the reaction from the young gentleman when he heard the news!"

"What happened?"

"The father told the son that his wife was caught committing adultery with another servant, she was so ashamed of herself that she locked herself in her chamber the entire night. But the next morning, she was gone, and one of her slippers was later found lying by the riverbank."

"She took her own life?" Mr. Knightley asked disbelievingly.

"Apparently," said Mr. Dickenson coolly.

"Did he know why?"

"Not at the time," said Mr. Dickenson. "But never for a second had the young gentleman believed that his bride could be unfaithful to him. The grieving husband could only explain the reason his wife took her own life because she was wrongly accused of the shameful act. For the next ten years, the gentleman mourned the loss of his best friend, his wife, his soul mate. Unfortunately, several years during that period of time, the harvests at the estate were poor, the tenants had not enough to eat, and the money from the family was dwindling. Out of desperation, the mourning widower finally gave in to his father's coercions, and entered himself into a marriage of convenience with the daughter of the owner of the adjoining estate."

The storyteller paused, gave his attentive audience an appreciative glance. "You have been very patience with my tale, Mr. Knightley, and to reward your patience, I shall move this story onto more recent years."

Mr. Dickenson took another sip of his port before he went on.

"Three years ago, on a night much like this night, the gentleman, no longer young, was now in his fifty-seventh year, his hair had turned silver, his eye sights were giving way, sitting in his dimly lit library staring blankly into the fire, no doubt, thinking of his long-lost love as he always did when he was alone at night. That night, the gentleman received an urgent note sent by the family's retired coachman. The note was brief, but it carried so much weight that it moved the gentleman to leave his home immediately to go to the dwelling of the one who authored the note.

"The coachman had sent his note on his deathbed. He was on his last breaths when the gentleman arrived. And had the gentleman not make it to his side in time, he would have missed the most important confession he would hear in his life!"

"_Confession_?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"Yes, confession!" replied Mr. Dickenson, "On his deathbed, the coachman asked for his old master's forgiveness..."

"_Forgiveness_?" Mr. Knightley was intrigued.

"Yes, Mr. Knightley – forgiveness!" There was anger in Mr. Dickenson's voice. "_Forgiveness_ that only the Almighty could grant, but the fellow at least had the heart not to carry his dreadful deed silently to his grave!"

Gritting his teeth, Mr. Dickenson looked fierily into his audience's eyes, "Brace yourself, Mr. Knightley, for the cruellest tale you have ever heard in your life! The dying coachman told the gentleman that a fortnight after he was sent off to Oxford by his father thirty seven years ago, under the secret order of the gentleman's father, in the dead of the night, two despicable servants in the estate forced their entry into the young master's bride's chamber, tied her up, gagged her, put her in a sack, and carried her off in the family's carriage. The coachman and the two servants drove for hours until dawn came, and into the woods of some remote village, the cold-hearted father had ordered the coachman and the two servants to throw the gentleman's young bride into a river!"

"That was _murder_!" Mr. Knightley broke out in rage, slamming his fist on the small table by the armchair.

"In _every_ sense of the crime!" Mr. Dickenson echoed firmly. "But the three men could not do it, and they agreed to deposit their young mistress into a ditch instead! The confession was made, and the coachman was barely breathing. But the gentleman was able to extract the name of the village near where his wife was deposited before the coachman took his last breath!"

"Did the gentleman go looking for his wife?" Mr. Knightley asked urgently, "It had been thirty-seven years, was she still alive?"

"The gentleman was disgusted by the cold-blooded crime conspired against his wife by his own father. If his father were still alive, he would have taken him to the magistrate for murder charges immediately and demanded justice. With the grief for losing his wife so violently renewed, he held on to a glimpse of hope, and he knew it was only a _very_ tiny glimpse, after all, it had been, as you said, thirty seven years. He set off, at the break of dawn the next morning, in his carriage to Longfield, the name of the village which was given by the coachman, and began searching for the traces of his wife."

"Did she survive? Did he find her?"

"He took a sketch of his wife in her youth and went door after door begging to see if anyone had remembered seeing her face thirty seven years ago. He told them her name and where she was from, but no one recalled anything."

"_No one_?"

"No one, except for one very old farm lady! The lady said the young woman in the sketch looked like the wife of the deceased cousin of the farmer who owned the duck farm on the outskirt of the village."

"Was it her? Did he find her?"

Mr. Dickenson shook his head mournfully. "If it was only that easy!" he sighed. "When he got to the duck farm, he immediately revealed himself to the farmer. As soon as the farmer heard his name, he raised his rake at him chasing him away like chasing a fox amongst his ducks!"

"Why would the farmer treat the gentleman in such hateful way?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"The gentleman did not know. But the farmer cursed at him, spitted on him, and told him to stay away from his farm and never come back!"

"Did the gentleman give up? He could not have given up on finding his wife!"

"He had no choice but to leave, or the old farmer would have committed violence against him. But he did not give up on searching for his wife. After he returned home, he knew there was nothing he could do himself, so he hired a Bow Street Runner to find his wife. And it took three years for the Bow Street Runner to unearth what he had been desperate to know!

"Mr. Knightley, you asked why the farmer treated the gentleman in that hateful way?"

Mr. Knightley nodded.

"Remember other than the coachman, there were two other servants who had a part in this crime?" asked Mr. Dickenson. "One of the servants died long before three years ago, killed by consuming too much gin. But the other man lived and served the family for many years, he was a drunkard and gamester, owed heavy debts to many moneylenders. Two years prior to the night the coachman confessed to the gentleman, this man went to the his mistress, that would be the second wife of the gentleman – for he knew, he could not have gone to his master – threatened to reveal the murder scheme of his master's first wife and bring ruin to the family. The mistress paid him off secretly, but she hired a man to go to the village to find out if her husband's first wife was still alive.

"Mr. Knightley, if not because of this woman and her hired man, the gentleman would have found his wife at the duck farm two years later. The hired man came back and reported to this woman that the first wife of her husband was alive and well in near the village where she was deposited. But nothing could have prepared that woman for the additional intelligence that the man found!"

"What was it, Mr. Dickenson?"

"The young bride whom was carried off and deposited into a ditch was with _child_, Mr. Knightley! That morning when she was lying in the ditch, a duck farmer was driving his newly purchased flock of ducks from a fair to his farm; the farmer heard some noises and thought at first that it was a fox. But when he searched closer, he heard moaning coming out of a sack, he immediately untied the knot to reveal a young woman inside. God had mercy on the mother and the child in her womb! Without the slightest hesitation, the farmer brought the badly wounded young woman to his house. The duck farmer and his wife kept the young mistress at their home, nursed her, fed her, and took care of her until she was well. And when her story was revealed to them, it was decided that for her own safety and the safety of the child inside her, she could not possibly go back to her husband's estate. The duck farmer and his wife were determined to keep the young mistress at their farm, and she would be their deceased cousin's wife who came to stay with them; the childless couple loved her like she was their very own, and helped her to the safe delivery of a healthy baby boy nine months later. Over the next thirty five years, the boy had grown into a man and married with children of his own. Unbeknown to the gentleman, his wife, their son, their grandchildren were all living happily at the duck farm!"

"And all these must have changed before the gentleman got to the farm?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"Unfortunate, is not it, Mr. Knightley?" asked Mr. Dickenson with sorrow. "The gentleman was so close to finding his lost love and his son!" the storyteller lamented.

"Remember that the marriage between the gentleman's second wife and the gentleman was a marriage of convenience?" Mr. Dickenson continued. "There was no affection between the husband and the wife. They consummated their marriage and had a son, and that was the extent of their marriage. Her son, who was the heir of the joined estates, was all that was important to this woman. So you must be able to imagine the reason that enraged her when she found out that not only her husband's first wife was not dead, she had a son with her husband long before her own son was born!"

"Her son had gone from the sole heir of the estates to one with no claims at all," concluded Mr. Knightley.

"Precisely! With a heart as black as her father-in-law's, the woman was determined that her son's birth right shall not be taken away. In the fear that her husband would eventually discover his dark family secret and be able to find his first wife and his firstborn son, this woman decided to visit her husband's wife at the duck farm. She offered her money, demanding her and her family be removed to a different town, and stayed away from her husband as far as possible!"

"But I do not think the gentleman's wife would take the money," surmised Mr. Knightley.

"No, she would not. And because she would not take the money, nor remove to a different town, the woman and her hired man began to spread vicious rumours about the duck farmer's deceased cousin's wife. For years and years, the whole village believed that the young woman had come to live at the duck farm because her husband had died and she was alone and with child, and now the same village was convinced that the child of the duck farmer's deceased cousin was born out of wedlock with another man, and that the woman who had been living there for thirty five years was nothing more than an immoral wench! The rumours had ruined the gentleman's wife and her family so severely that eventually they had to remove from the duck farm."

"And that was why the gentleman could not find his wife two years later!"

"But that was not the extent of what that black-hearted woman had done, Mr. Knightley! Even though the woman had gotten her wish and forced her husband's first wife and her family to remove, it was not enough! She wished her husband's first wife, his son and his grandchildren to be as far away as possible, so for the next few years, she sent her hired man to spread the same vicious rumours in every town that they moved to, all the towns despised the family so much that, at the end, the family was forced to remove again! The fact that the family had moved so many times in the course of five years had made it almost impossible for the Bow Street Runner to track down the whereabouts of the gentleman's wife!"

"But the Bow Street Runner found her and her family, he did, did not he?" asked Mr. Knightley.

Mr. Dickenson was mournful. "Yes, the Bow Street Runner eventually did find the family... but unfortunately, three years into the constant moving, the gentleman's wife's aged body could not endure the strenuous demand, and her spirit suffered too much from the humiliation of the vicious rumours... she went into a decline and died in a small town!"

"I am very sorry for the loss of the gentleman!" admitted Mr. Knightley sincerely.

"You are very kind, Mr. Knightley! Indeed the gentleman's already broken heart shattered when he heard the news of his wife's death, but he did not give up, not just yet. Now that he knew that he and his true love had a son, every old bone in his body wished to be reunited with his son!"

"But it must be all but done! As the Bow Street Runner already knew the whereabouts of his son and his family, would not it be an easy task to be reunited now?" Mr. Knightley asked.

The storyteller sighed, "Mr. Knightley, perhaps it is time that I reveal the names of the principal characters in this story to you!"

Mr. Knightley's curiosity surged – for some unknown reasons he had a feeling that the names of the characters must be of great significance.

"Let me begin with the gentleman in this story – The Streatfeilds is one of the oldest families in Rochester, and the gentleman in the story is the heir of the estate. Mr. Streatfeild and I have been very good friends since we were lads. I have been in confidence of his tragic tale since the day his father told him his beloved wife took her own life. And perhaps you would be curious of the name of his wife, the one that he had been missing for nearly forty years – her maiden name was Clarke. Do these names ring any bells for you, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley shook his head.

"I would not think so," Mr. Dickenson smiled softly. "But the next name I am certain that it would. Remember Mrs. Streatfeild was living at the duck farm under the disguise as the widow of the couple's deceased cousin?"

Mr. Knightley nodded.

"And you must have surmised that for hers and her son's safety, fearing that whoever designed the murder scheme against her would discover her survival if she continued to carry the name Streatfeild, Mrs. Streatfeild had to assume a different name?"

Mr. Knightley nodded again.

"Very well! As soon as Mrs. Streatfeild was adopted into the duck farm, she had assumed the surname of the duck farmer's family." Looking deep into Mr. Knightley's eyes, Mr. Dickenson asked, "Would you like to know the surname of the duck farmer, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Dickenson saw Mr. Knightley holding his breath, he said, "The surname of the duck farmer is – Anderton!"

"_Anderton_!" Mr. Knightley's eyes flung wide open.

"Yes, Mr. Knightley, Anderton! Does this name ring any bell?"

"You mean... the Anderton who works for the Donwell home-farm is... Mr. Streatfeild's son?" Gaping at the storyteller, Mr. Knightley was in utter dismay.

"After searching through town after town for three years, the Bow Street Runner had finally tracked down Mr. Streatfeild's son and his family three weeks ago, and yes, the Mr. Anderton living in Donwell _is_ his son! Mr. Streatfeild was overjoyed to learn of his son's whereabouts, but the desperate waiting of these past three years had deteriorated his health terribly, and the news of the death of his beloved wife had taken him to a dire decline. Even now that he knows where his long lost son lives, his failing body does not allow him to travel from Rochester to Donwell to come see his own son!"

"And that was why you were here at Donwell a fortnight ago?"

"Yes! As someone who desired to grant his friend his last wish, I promised Mr. Streatfeild to bring him his son, which was why I visited Donwell. But unfortunately, all that had happened in the last five years has implanted an insurmountable misunderstanding in Mr. Anderton's heart. Mr. Anderton resented his natural father with every morsel of his being; he refused to listen to my plea to bring him to his father, and forced me to go back to my friend empty-handed two weeks ago!"

"And tonight you came trying again?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"And was met by the same ill fate! Mr. Anderton was furious to see me again and slammed his door at me for the second time!" lamented Mr. Dickenson.

"I am very sorry, Mr. Dickenson!" said Mr. Knightley sincerely.

"I am not the least sorry for myself, Mr. Knightley. The only person I am sorry for is my friend, Mr. Streatfeild. After the failed attempt last time, he bade me to wait a while to allow his son to curb his anger before seeking him again. Mr. Streatfeild had written a letter for me to deliver to his son, hoping that it would explain what really happened. But Mr. Anderton threw the letter back at me and warned me to never go near his cottage again before slamming the door tonight."

"What do you plan to do now, Mr. Dickenson?"

"Before I stepped into my carriage, Mr. Anderton's wife stole away from her husband and came out from the back of the house; she seemed to understand what had happened and she told me that her husband had not trusted anyone for the last five years. But there is one, only _one_, person that Mr. Anderton would trust..." Mr. Dickenson looked Mr. Knightley in the eyes intently, "and that person is _you_, Mr. Knightley!"

"_Me_!" surprised Mr. Knightley.

"Yes, Mr. Knightley, _you_! Mrs. Anderton said that because of what you have done for her husband and their family, and the kindness you have shown to your tenants and labourers, you are the only person her husband is willing to trust in five years!"

"And... that is why you came to the Abbey tonight..."

"You are Mr. Streatfeild's last hope, Mr. Knightley!" Mr. Dickenson implored, "There are not many days left with my old friend, and his only wish is to see his son before his last breath. Twice I have failed to convince Mr. Anderton to go to Rochester to see his father, I am afraid even if I try again I would be met with the same result."

"What would you like me to do, Mr. Dickenson?" Mr. Knightley asked unreservedly.

From his coat pocket, Mr. Dickenson retrieved a sealed letter, he handed it to Mr. Knightley and said, "Mr. Streatfeild and I shall be forever in your debt, Mr. Knightley, if you could deliver this letter to Mr. Anderton, convince him to read it before deciding if he would be willing to go to Rochester to see his father!"

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**A/N**: I haven't asked for reviews for a long time... not because I don't want them (what writers wouldn't want to know what their readers think of their stories!) but because I fear that no one would review even if I ask, my diffidence could not handle such disappointment. But I'm going to break my resolve this time... I'd love to know what you think of this chapter...

Once again, thank you so much for reading! :D And _xxktnxx, _thank you for letting me know you loved this story! :D


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

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Dawn had not yet broken, the winter sky was still in its charcoal state, most of the farmers and labourers had yet to come out of their dwellings, but, to no one's surprise, particularly Mr. Knightley's, his Donwell spademan and hedger was already standing in the field, diligently piling dirt over the drain that he and Hackman laid in the earth the previous day.

With the letter Mr. Dickenson entrusted him the night before, contemplating over how to broach the infinitely private and delicate matter, Mr. Knightley stood a ways away from Mr. Anderton, observing him silently through the small flickering light of the lantern at the feet of the man.

From their first encounter, Mr. Knightley had noticed the weariness embedded in the lines of Mr. Anderton's face, the anger that shaped his eyes, the agitation that pervaded his shoulders. At the time, he reckoned that the false accusation of being a thief had no doubt affected this man greatly, and he could only hope that time would heal his name and his wounds. Over the past few months, Hackman had made his confessions, and the name of the wrongly accused had been restored. After many occasions of speaking with him regarding his excellent work at the Donwell home-farm, Mr. Knightley could see that the agitation in Mr. Anderton seemed dissipating, but, to his surprise, his weariness, his anger never took their leaves. He had discovered that Mr. Anderton was an intensely private man, who guarded his privacy like a hawk guarding his nest. Nothing from his past, except his experience with drainage, had ever slipped from the farm-servant's tongue; if he ever spoke, he would only speak of his children, and even then cautions had always held him back. Though Mr. Knightley respected Mr. Anderton's wishes without hesitation, there were times he could not help but wonder what had implanted such weariness and anger in this man – and now, he knew what it was.

Perhaps it was the dim flickers from the lantern that made Mr. Anderton's face grim, or perhaps it was the unwelcomed visit from Mr. Dickenson the night before that had made him looked more aggravated than ever. The amount of force that the spademan and hedger used to shove the dirt over the drain, apparently, to Mr. Knightley, had more than trebled. Each time the man dug his shovel into the earth, irrepressible anger and sorrow went headlong with it.

The longer Mr. Knightley stood there observing Mr. Anderton, the heavier he felt his heart, and the task with which he had been entrusted seemed to weigh far heavier. Nevertheless, as time was not a luxury that favoured the dying father in Rochester, Mr. Knightley began to walk over to Mr. Anderton and prayed that Wisdom would be his guide.

"Good morning, Anderton," bade Mr. Knightley.

His agitated silence was suddenly broken; Mr. Anderton took a breath, looking up briefly to pay his respect. "Good morning, Mr. Knightley," he said, his full attention was back at shovelling the dirt.

"You have done an excellent job with our new drains." Mr. Knightley needed an opening.

Without a pause in his motions, without even a nod, and with his hollow eyes fixed on the earth, "Three more... three more drains to cut, lay, and cover..." absently, Mr. Anderton said.

"Three more," Mr. Knightley echoed contemplatively, still wondering how to broach the heavy matter.

As there was no good way to begin, Mr. Knightley drew an inward sigh and decided to simply plunge. "Anderton..." he paused, waiting for the man to look up.

Even with the biting cold air, large beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead, the spademan and hedger did not seem to have heard his master, with gritted teeth he continued to thrust the dirt over the drain.

"Anderton," Mr. Knightley spoke up more loudly.

This time his attention was caught, Mr. Anderton stopped his motions; straightening his back, he looked up slowly to meet his master's eyes with an empty voice, "Yes, Mr. Knightley?"

"I received a visitor late last night," Mr. Knightley began.

A crease was formed between Mr. Anderton's severe brows, his hollow eyes instantly sharpened, for he also had a visitor the night before. _Coincidence! _– the man reckoned, without the slightest amusement.

"He was from Rochester," Mr. Knightley imparted, watching Mr. Anderton's grip on the shovel tightened and his breathing grew shallow.

For a moment there was only an intense silence.

When Mr. Anderton would not speak, Mr. Knightley carried on, "He wished me to deliver this letter to you."

Mr. Knightley held out the letter to Mr. Anderton but the man immediately looked away.

It was as if an iron fist was clutching his heart, every muscle within Mr. Anderton tried to suppress the excruciating pain inside, he said icily, "I do not know anyone from Rochester, you are mistaken."

As Mr. Anderton would not lift an eye to the letter he had been holding out, Mr. Knightley lowered his hand. "You may not know Mr. Dickenson well," he said steadily, "but he had visited you a fortnight ago, and he came again last night bearing this important letter for you."

Suspicions had seized his voice, still looking away, Mr. Anderton asked with caution, "And _you_ know this Mr. Dickenson well?"

"Mr. Dickenson is a long time family friend," replied Mr. Knightley.

Mr. Anderton suddenly turned and stared scornfully at Mr. Knightley, "So – you are one of _them_?"

"One of _whom_, Anderton?" Mr. Knightley asked.

Clenching his fists, the agitated man refused to answer.

"One of your father's friend?" Mr. Knightley asked calmly, but with the intention to provoke – for he reckoned that stirring the emotions inside Mr. Anderton might well be the only way to draw him out.

"_N__O_!" Mr. Anderton cried out. Barely keeping his pain at bay, he turned away from Mr. Knightley again, replying with great resentment, "I do _NOT_ have a father!"

"I am not a friend of Mr. Streatfeild, if that is what you were asking," Mr. Knightley supplied.

"Then you are _wasting_ your time meddling matters that do _not_ concern you!" Mr. Anderton retorted harshly.

"Mr. Dickenson had explained to me what happened forty years ago, all your father wants is a chance to reunite with you."

Mr. Anderton suddenly flung himself round facing Mr. Knightley; there was so much anger on his face that it gave Mr. Knightley a start. "How _COULD _he want to reunite with me when he wanted my mother _DEAD_ forty years ago?" the man demanded furiously.

The intelligence startled Mr. Knightley even more than the anger on Mr. Anderton's face, urgently he asked, "Who told you that your father wanted your mother dead?"

"_HIS WIFE_!" bellowed Mr. Anderton.

"Mr. Streatfeild's _wife_?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"That man was such a _coward_ that he did not even have the gall to come tell us to stay away himself, he had to send that _WIFE_ of his to come tell us to _LEAVE_!"

"What did his wife tell you?"

"She did not tell me – that _DAMN_ woman told my mother!"

Since the day that heartless woman had came to his house and brought ruins to his mother, to his family, Mr. Anderton had tried everything in his power to bury the pain that fateful day caused. But in spite of how hard he tried, the passage of time had not made the pain easier to bear, it simply made him realize that such pain would forever be part of his life, and he would work harder still on living with it. But just when he thought he had found his refuge in Donwell, what he had half-buried was coming back to life full of vengeance. The pain that had been eating him away for five long years was now ripping his guts apart. No longer able to keep the tumult surging violently inside, Mr. Anderton, heedless to what consequence it might bring, began to open up to the only man he trusted.

"_SHE_ told my mother to stay away from her husband – _HER_ husband! My mother wedded that _DESPICABLE_ man in the eyes of the law – my mother was _HIS _legitimate wife! She waited for him to come for her for thirty five years! But he _NEVER_ did! And the day when that _WIFE_ of his appeared at our house, my mother finally understood why he never came – it was because _HE_ was the one who wanted her _DEAD_! _HE _was the one who ordered her to be thrown down the ditch! And when he found out that my mother did not die, he told his _DAMN_ wife to come to tell my mother to stay away from him as far as possible!"

Mr. Knightley was shocked! Wishing to be certain of what he just heard, he asked, "That is what his wife told your mother – that it was your father who contrived the murder scheme?"

"_YES_!" Mr. Anderton shouted angrily. "That woman told my mother that her husband _NEVER_ loved my mother, regretted to be married to her; that was _WHY_ he wished her _DEAD_! And when he realized my mother was still alive, he wanted her to pack our family and leave! She threw us their filthy money and thought that we would wag our tails and do as she ordered. And when we refused, rumours began to spread all over town within a few days, everyone began to believe that my mother was a _whore_, and I was a _bastard_! Within a month, our entire family was ruined, everyone in town despised us, treated us with so much _HATRED_ that we were forced to _LEAVE_!"

The aggravated man heaved heavily, and in his fiery rage, he thrust the shovel onto the ground, hitting a large rock breaking its wooden handle into two pieces.

While Mr. Anderton heaved, Mr. Knightley asked, "And your family have been on the move ever since?"

"We started heading west," anger continued to possess Mr. Anderton, "but _EVERY _town we moved to, that wicked woman had the same rumour spread, and within three months we were forced to remove again. For _FIVE_ years we kept moving and moving town after town until we came to Donwell!"

Sorrows suddenly permeated the furious man, his rage had turned into immeasurable sadness, and his previously fiery voice was now hollowed. "The endless moving took a cruel toll on my mother... her heart was already broken when we left Longfield, and she was far too frail to endure the endless ridicules and humiliations town after town..." overcame by his grief, the grown man choked, "she... died... two years ago!"

Mr. Knightley's kind heart mourned for the loss of Mr. Anderton. He spoke to him sincerely, "I am very sorry for your loss!" The compassionate gentlemen stood there and waited, allowing a moment for the distraught man to recapture his composure. He then proceeded steadily, "Anderton, have you ever had any suspicion on what that woman told your mother?"

Mr. Anderton gaped at Mr. Knightley with a severe frown.

"Have you ever thought that what she told your mother might not be the truth?" Mr. Knightley elaborated.

"That is _impossible_!" Anderton returned fervently, "Why would that woman lie to my mother?"

"You had said that your father did not have the courage to go see your mother himself, have you ever wondered why he sent his wife?" questioned Mr. Knightley.

"_BECAUSE_," the anger in Mr. Anderton flared again, "he wanted to _HURT _her, just as he wanted to _KILL_ her forty years ago!"

"But why did not he send someone else, why did he send his wife?"

"Of course he would not wish to send just _anybody_ – Because he wanted to keep his crime under the rug!"

"But if he did not wish anyone to find out his crime, should not he have kept his silence? After all, the crime had escaped noticed for thirty five years, why would he wish to jeopardize it by sending his wife to wreck your mother's and your lives?"

"_He_... _he_..." Mr. Anderton fell into silence, could not seem to think of an answer this time.

Mr. Knightley saw an opening, he pressed, "Have you ever thought that perhaps it was his wife's own idea to seek out your mother?"

Mr. Anderton stared straight into Mr. Knightley's eyes intensely.

"Do you know that your father did not marry that woman until ten years after your mother disappeared?" Mr. Knightley asked, and Mr. Anderton kept staring at him with narrowed eyes.

"Your father never stopped mourning for the loss of your mother!" Mr. Knightley saw Mr. Anderton shaking his head unwilling to believe what he said, but he would continue. "For several years, his father's estate had been doing poorly and he agreed to marry that woman under his father's coercion to save the estate. The marriage between your father and her was a marriage of convenience. And do you know that the woman has a son with your father?"

Mr. Anderton broke his silence, "What does their _DAMN_ son have anything to do with me?"

"It has _everything_ to do with you!" Mr. Knightley remarked. "As you have said it, your mother wedded your father in the eyes of the law; she _was_ his legitimate wife – which makes _you_ his legitimate son. And as you are the firstborn son in the family, this makes you the heir of his estate. Knowing that her son's birth right would vanish in a flash if your father ever found out that your mother was alive and had a son with him, that woman set out to ruin your mother and forced your family to stay away from your father for the sole purpose of protecting her own son."

All colours were drained from Mr. Anderson, leaving his hard angry face white as a ghost. He closed his eyes, desperately trying to absorb all that he was hearing.

"Forty years ago," Mr. Knightley went on, "the day when your father came home from Oxford, his father – your grandfather – told him that your mother had taken her own life. But all these years, your father has never stopped loving your mother, and never stopped mourning for her. Three years ago, the family's retired coachman, who drove your mother into the ditch, confessed to your father that it was your grandfather, who fiercely objected the union of your parents, masterminded the murder scheme of your mother. As soon as your father heard the confession, he set out looking for your mother, and he has been looking ever since!"

Mr. Anderton's eyes were still shut tight, but in the back of his mind, he quickly conjured the arithmetic – three years ago, his entire family had already been exiled from their hometown, living almost the life of the Gypsies, it would have been impossible to find them even if one tried. Could everything that the woman told her mother have been a lie? Was it really his grandfather who had wished his mother dead, not his father? Could it be true that the man he had hated for five long years really loved his mother? Could he really have been looking for them the last three years?

The iron fist that constricted Anderton's heart seemed to have loosened its grip. An unfamiliar warm feeling suddenly rushed through his body. But for a man who had been living in rage and weariness for so long, it was far easier to hold onto the anger that he had gotten used to than opening his heart to accept the possibility that his father was innocent.

Mr. Anderton flung open his eyes and glared furiously at Mr. Knightley, with rage he said, "Why should I listen to a _word_ you said?"

"Anderton," Mr. Knightley replied calmly, "you do not need to listen to a word I said. Your father had explained what happened in this letter," holding out the letter in his hand again, "you should find out the truth for yourself."

"I shall _never_ read his letter!" Mr. Anderton cried bitterly. "My mother loved him all her life, waited for him to come for her all those years..." a lump was caught in his throat, he kept on chokingly, "even if he did look for her... it is no matter now... she is dead!" To hide his sadness, the distraught man turned and moved away from Mr. Knightley.

Mr. Knightley took a deep breath, slowly he approached Mr. Anderton, laying a comforting hand on his arm, he said, "What happened had truly been tragic, but do not you wish to know the truth to set your mind free once and for all? And even if you do not care to know it yourself, do not you think that your mother would have liked to know the truth – from her husband's own words?"

Once again, Mr. Knightley held out the letter for Mr. Anderton, but the man just stood there, motionless, in silence, pondering Mr. Knightley's every word. After a very long moment, with tremendous apprehension, Mr. Anderton began to lift a hand inch by inch in very slow motion, couple of times his hand dropped back down to his side before he would lift it hesitantly again. After what seemed an eternal and excruciating struggle he finally took the letter from Mr. Knightley wordlessly.

The heavy burden in Mr. Knightley's heart was beginning to lift. He watched Mr. Anderton, holding the letter in his hand, slowly moved to where his dimly lit lantern stood. In the midst of a lonely empty field, where the wintry, dark air surrounding the long-lost son, who knelt down before the flickering light, broke the seal on the letter, and began to read his father's words.

Ere long, Mr. Knightley heard pearls of wetness slowly falling on the ground, the gentleman looked up to the sky – it was dry. He turned his eyes back to the afflicted figure next to the dim light and saw large drops of tears, one by one, dripping onto the ground, and onto the letter in his hands. Each tear that dropped seemed to alleviate the massive tension that had been compressing the weary man's shoulders, each breath that the weary man took seemed to ease his next breath. Mr. Anderton's tears continued to fall onto the letter, until his shoulders completely drooped and a quiet sob escaped him.

_It was time_ – Mr. Knightley reckoned. He walked over to Mr. Anderton and said kindly, "I shall go to the Crowns and hire carriage horses and a coachman. Once my carriage is prepared, I shall send it to your cottage and it will take you to Rochester. In the time being, go home and gather what you need for your journey."

As a dying father was awaiting his son, Mr. Knightley had not any time to lose. The gentleman turned to take his leave, but the softened voice of Mr. Anderton caught him.

"What about the drainage work, Mr. Knightley?"

For a second, Mr. Knightley was amused by the incomparable work ethics of his farm-labourer. He turned round with a kind smile, "Those can wait, Anderton!" and he saw the infinitely grateful nod from his spademan and hedger before turning again and took his leave.

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The carriage horses and the coachman were hired, the Donwell carriage was dispatched, and Mr. Knightley saw Mr. Anderton off in the carriage embarking on the important journey to Rochester. He took a long deep breath as he watched the carriage gradually disappearing from his sight. Though he had fulfilled his duty to the task entrusted by Mr. Dickenson, the heaviness in his heart was only half lifted. All the while when he was absently watching Joseph harnessing the hired horses to the Donwell carriage earlier in the day, the image of his young and dearest friend, the person whose well being was of the foremost interest in his heart, kept occupying his mind. The thought of what he had to tell her dreaded him greatly.

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**A/N: **Thank you so much for your reviews in the last chapter, I really appreciate you guys! And thank you for reading this chapter! :D


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

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"_Come back_... Wobble... _pray_ come back... "

On this cold, wintry afternoon, beneath the distant yet inviting sun, came the young Hartfield Mistress and her beloved pup, skipping and humming as they took their daily stroll on the Donwell Abbey ground. But when the acute hearing of Wobble caught the movements of Big Bushy Tail, the golden spaniel instantly scampered off after his friend in flashing speed, and the poor mistress was left scrambling to gather her skirt with one hand, clasping in the other the ribbons of the bonnet that was coming loose, and scurrying behind the overexcited puppy and the puppy's squirrel friend.

"Wobble... Where are you?" the young mistress kept looking for her puppy.

She had reached the hedges bordering the extensive ground in front of the Abbey, her tender voice continued to echo above the Abbey ground, bidding piteously again, "Wobble, my little boy, where are you... you know it is unkind to abandon your mistress for Big Bushy..." only that her calls had been falling on preoccupied furry ears.

How many times had she pleaded for Wobble to come back? So many times that she had lost count. Presently, standing alone listening to the empty echo of her voice, Emma could not help but feeling a little foolish.

But the fourteen-year-old would not give up. She had made a small opening between the hedges with her mittened hands. Caring little of her bonnet falling to the ground, Emma squeezed her head into the opening to see if the two furry playmates were hiding somewhere behind the thickets. Her eyes searching up, down, and round for signs of Wobble and Big Bushy Tail, but there was none. Frustration and discouragement were rising within her until she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder and heard the familiar sound of a dear gentleman clearing his throat.

Emma was so excited to know that her grown-up friend was standing behind, un-squeezing her head out of the small opening, she twirled round with exhilarating swiftness, but, as some might say, with a little too much exuberance and not enough care, and succeeded in having her long curls caught by the prickly branches, entwining the silky tresses in a tangled mess.

"_O__oo__uch_..." yelped the fourteen-year-old as she unwsiely tried to jerk her hair off the branches. "Help me, Mr. Knightley... I am stuck... _help_..."

The gentleman had not planned on being amused when he came looking for her, but then, somehow, his young friend seemed to possess an innate talent to amuse him since the day her tiny little infant fist found his thumb and would not let go. The sight of Emma, only a step removed from the hedges, bending at her waist, wincing, part of her long hair fanning out in the air and part braiding the twigs of the hedges, helpless as a beetle caught in a cobweb, had momentarily casted Mr. Knightley's heavy heart aside.

This certainly was not the first time (nor would it be the last) he saw her in a queer entanglement; in fact, he had seen this sight more than a dozen times when Emma was a bouncy, blithely little creature. But now that she was a young lady, and knowing how proud she was for being a young lady, he felt that it would be un-gentlemanlike to laugh at her in such a state, thus, with a deep breath Mr. Knightley sucked in his desires to chuckle, quickly straightening the twitches on his lips, removing his leather gloves, and began untwining her curls from the mess.

"_Ouch, ouch... ooouch..."_ tears of pain were welling in Emma's eyes, "Be _gentle_, Mr. Knightley! You ought to know that my hair is still attached to my delicate head!" grimacing, the girl in the cobweb whined.

"If your head were so delicate, why did you stick it between the hedges in the first place, Emma?" Oh, how the gentleman loved teasing this impertinent girl!

"I was looking for Wobble!"

"Ah, you let him run off again?"

"Surely _not_!" Emma pouted. "He heard Big Bushy Tail and started chasing after him... _Ouch, ouch... ooouch... _Mr. Knightley, be _gentle_!" The young lady accented her demand with a stamp of her foot.

The gentleman rolled his eyes, "I am as gentle as I can be, Emma!"

"Then you are not a very _gentle_ gentleman!" the young lady grumbled. "You are treating my hair like straws! My hair is soft and fine, how could you be so ... _OOOUCH_!"

The gentleman had just yanked a strand of long hair from his friend's head!

"You did that on _purpose_!" cried the girl in the tangled mess.

"To teach you a lesson for being ungrateful," returned the gentleman, stifling his laugh.

"How could I be _grateful_ when you are hurting me..._OOUCH_!" another miserable cry coming from the young lady. "You did that on purpose _again_!"

"Serendipity, Emma, serendipity!" imparted the mischievous gentleman with a boyish grin. Mr. Knightley saw Emma wrinkling her nose, she would not believe him. "It was unintentional, Emma, I assure you!" he said it with a half-straight face.

"_Fine_! Just get me out of here..."

Mr. Knightley returned his full attention to the task, taking great care to gently peel Emma's hair a few strands at a time from the prickly branches.

But only a minute into his undertaking, "_Hurry_, Mr. Knightley!" the young lady croaked impatiently. "My back is hurting for standing like this for so long!"

"Well, why do not you wait for me here, Emma?" asked Mr. Knightley.

Emma was surprised. "Where are you going?"

"Why," his eyes glinting, "you wished me to hurry, so I shall go into the Abbey to fetch a pair of scissors and cut your hair off the hedge. Would _that_ be hurry enough for you, my dear Emma?" the gentleman teased ruthlessly.

"You will not _dare_!"

"Would you like to see?" grinning, Mr. Knightley began to walk away.

Stamping both feet, Emma demanded, "Come back, _you_! _Come back_..." but she was promptly cut off.

"Ask properly, young lady, or I shall fetch the scissors," the gentleman said with remarkably twinkling eyes.

Some unladylike rumblings were emitted out of the young lady.

"_S-c-i-s-s-o-r-s_..." Mr. Knightley drawled nonchalantly, cocking an amused-brow.

"_Fine_!" the young lady grunted, "Pray... get me out of here..."

She sure did not sound sincere!

The gentleman shook his head, he sighed (hiding a smile) and walked even farther away.

Emma panicked! "Pray, Mr. Knightley," she swallowed, "would you... would you help me out of my predicament?" Her tone was much sweeter this time, and she even mustered a rueful smile, "_Pray..._"

Amused and grinning widely, Mr. Knightley gave a nod of approval. "Very well, _since_ you asked!"

The gentleman sauntered back to his young friend and began untangling her hair gingerly from the branches again.

And several minutes later the beetle was freed from the cobweb.

Stretching like a little awakening kitten, Emma moaned as her stiffen torso straightening up, and she could hardly wait to remove her mittens to rub her sore scalp with both hands – all these gestures, which would have been deemed unladylike by Miss Taylor, were adorable in Mr. Knightley's eyes.

"You let Wobble chasing Big Bushy Tail again?" Mr. Knightley asked as he helped Emma pluck the remanent of twigs out of her disarranged hair.

"How could I help it if he wished to run off?" Emma protested weakly, "He never listens when I call him from his chase... I hardly even know where he is now..."

Mr. Knightley shook his head and with one commanding whistle reverberating sharply in the air, before Emma could count to three, cheerful barking was traversing from a distance, and within seconds, the golden spaniel was charging at them in ferocious speed.

Panting, skipping, forgetting his squirrel chum, Wobble was thrilled to ecstasy in the presence of the two people he loved most. The sprightly puppy weaved busily between his adored mistress and commanding master before settling down to hover round his mistress's skirt, wagging his tail enthusiastically and grinning gloriously up at her.

But in spite of her puppy happily returning to her side, Emma let out a helpless sigh. "Why does Wobble always listen to you but not me?" Eyes casting down, feeling defeated, she asked in a small voice, "Is it because he prefers you... over _me_?"

Mr. Knightley had often thought that it would do his young friend well to curb her excessively favourable self-opinion a little, but he did not like it, not even in the slightest, when he saw Emma feeling veritably downcast.

"Wobble adores you, Emma," he said very kindly. "You are the most important person to him." Emma's beckoning eyes slowly looked up at him, Mr. Knightley added gently, "But you _do_ spoil him and let him rule over you sometimes."

"You really think so?" Emma asked in the same small voice.

Mr. Knightley nodded slowly.

Picking up the golden fur-ball, which had grown to be almost too big for her to cradle, Emma asked, "Do you think I should be stricter with him?"

Mr. Knightley nodded again, smiling down at Emma. "That would be a good start," said he, reaching out a hand to rub Wobble's head, "I hope he did not hurt the squirrel."

"Oh no, Wobble would never hurt Big Bushy Tail, Mr. Knightley! They are good friends, he only chases him to play with him," Emma explained a-matter-of-factly.

"Although..." the young lady seemed to have second thoughts, "he could be a _little_ rough at times... as all puppies do, you know!"

Once she made her confession, Emma turned to the spaniel squirming in her arms and, abandoning the velvety voice she always used when speaking to her puppy, in a tone of watery firmness she said to him, "Wobble, from now on you must be gentle with Big Bushy Tail!"

Dubious of the effect of her pitiful attempt, but admiring her heart for trying, Mr. Knightley respectfully stifled his chuckle.

Emma noticed the twinkles in Mr. Knightley's eyes, "Was I not strict enough?" she asked unsurely.

"A_hem_..." the gentleman checked the tickles in his throat, "I think you need more practice, Emma."

For a few seconds, Mr. Knightley could see the gyration going through Emma's whimsical mind, and his inordinate urges to laugh intensified, but ere long brilliant sparkles were shining through Emma's hazel eyes.

The young lady cleared her throat, "_Ahem..."_ in the same way that Mr. Knightley cleared his, lowering her voice murmuring something to herself, "_I think... I think... you... you..."_

_Humph__, this would not do! _Feeling not quite satisfied, Emma lowered her voice further and tried again, "_I think... ahem... you... need... more... more..."_

_Not quite there yet!_ Emma cleared her throat one more time, "_Ahem..." _and lowered her voice further still, to about an octave lower, or some might say as low as Mr. Knightley's masculine voice, and said, "_I think you need more..." _

_This was it! _A radiant smile rippled through Emma's face. She cleared her throat again, looking severely, or tried to look severely at her puppy, and said to him, "_Wobble_!" she sounded as serious as when Mr. Knightley speaking to William Larkins, "_I think you need more practice... on being gentle__ with __your friends_!"

As Mr. Knightley had expected, Wobble was unmoved by his mistress's decree, jutting his little red tongue out, the puppy grinned innocently at his mistress. But unexpectedly, Wobble's mistress, Emma, feeling thoroughly pleased, looked up at the gentleman with a vainglorious smile and asked smugly, "How was _that _for a _commanding_ voice?"

Like the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, Emma's ridiculous imitation of the gentleman had successfully tipped the seesaw between his wavering self-control and prodigious urge to laugh. Succumbing to the nonsensical girl's fanciful antic, guffaws came exploding from the depth of Mr. Knightley's throat.

Unable to compose himself for the time being, Mr. Knightley's broken reply to the nonsensical girl was, "_Practice... _Emma_...__ P__ractice_!"

Mr. Knightley's laughter must be contagious, instead of feeling indignant for being laughed at, Emma burst into giggles, even the innocent Wobble was not immune, excited by the gales of merry chortles, the puppy began yapping and howling blissfully alongside his beloved mistress and master.

At last, when the echo of their chortles dissipated in the air, Emma laid Wobble on the ground, reached her hand into her pocket and retrieved a small package wrapped in very pretty tissue paper. Proudly, she handed it to Mr. Knightley and said, "This is for you!"

By the size and weight of the bundle, the gentleman had an inkling of what it was that he was holding in his hand. With anticipation he un-wrapped the package and in it revealed a brand new handkerchief embroidered by Emma's own delicate hands.

"What do you think? Do you like it?" Emma was as excited as she was anxious.

It was nearly five months ago when Emma took on Agnes's embroidery challenge, and since then, Mr. Knightley had received so many handkerchiefs from her that he had no need to visit any haberdasher for handkerchief for the rest of his life. He had been immensely pleased to see that not only that Emma had not given up on the craft, her desire to win the challenge was even stronger than the day she started it. Each new handkerchief he received from her was significantly improved over the last, and the difficulty of the stitching had been steadily increasing. Emma's latest handiwork was indeed beautiful – his initials embroidered in plaited braid pattern with gold threats were both masculine and elegant. But how could the gentleman resist the temptation to tease his young friend again?

Rubbing his chin and compressing his lips to a thin line, a frown was formed on his brows, Mr. Knightley feigned a severe look while examining the handkerchief, he said, "_Humph..."_

"_What_?" The look on Mr. Knightley's face worried Emma. "Is there something wrong with it?" she asked.

"It is not... quite straight..."

Emma was shocked. "_Not quite straight..._" She hastened to retrieve the handkerchief from Mr. Knightley's hands, looked at it so closely that her eyes nearly crossed. Muttering at herself, she sounded lost, "It _cannot_ be... I tried so hard to make it straight... I even chalked a line on it with a straight edge... how could it be crooked... it is _impossible_..."

Emma's frantic reaction was too much for the gentleman to bear; he stopped bothering with his antic and started chuckling.

The young lady, needless to say, was not pleased, she shoved the handkerchief back in his hand and said indignantly, "You teased me!"

"The handkerchief is excellently done, Emma," still chuckling, Mr. Knightley confessed. "I am sorry that I teased you."

Mr. Knightley lifted off his hat and took a playful bow, which effectively caused Emma to laugh and forgive him. With eyes beaming with pride, Emma looked up at him and said, "It is the most difficult pattern that Agnes has shown me thus far. She said she would teach me the interlaced chain stitch next!"

The mentioning of the Andertons' eldest daughter suddenly sank the light-hearted gentleman back to the ground, reminding him of the reason he came looking for Emma, the heaviness in Mr. Knightley's heart returned.

Perhaps, Mr. Knightley reckoned, it was time to speak to her on the matter, he took a deep breath.

"Emma, when was the last time you saw Miss Anderton?"

Emma was taken aback by Mr. Knightley's grave look. Unsure of the reason for his gravity and the question, she answered warily, "Yesterday at her cottage... as Mr. Anderton has forbidden Agnes to come to Hartfield, I could only see her when Miss Taylor and I visit them at their home... ah... did Mr. Anderton find us out?"

Mr. Knightley shook his head.

"I am so glad that Mr. Anderton has not found out! If he ever finds out that Agnes and I are still friends, he would certainly be displeased... any chance of Agnes and I could remain friends shall be lost I am sure!" Emma blew a deep sigh of relief.

Mr. Knightley nodded with a strained smile.

But Emma became curious, she asked, "Why did you ask, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley took another deep breath, "Emma..." dreading to tell her the intelligence.

"Yes... Mr. Knightley?"

"Do you remember Mr. Dickenson?"

Emma gave the name some thoughts. "You mean the Mr. Dickenson that you spoke of two weeks ago, who came to Donwell from Rochester?"

Mr. Knightley nodded. "He was at Donwell again last night."

Emma looked up at Mr. Knightley quizzically, waiting for him to go on.

"He came here to see Mr. Anderton."

Emma's eyes went wild, "_He_ _did_?"

"Yes, and afterwards he came to the Abbey to see me."

"Did you know Mr. Dickenson was acquainted with Mr. Anderton?" inquisitive Emma asked.

Mr. Knightley shook his head, "No, not until last night."

"Then..." Emma surmised, "Does it mean that Mr. Dickenson came to Donwell two weeks ago to see Mr. Anderton as well?"

He nodded.

"What is Mr. Dickenson's relation with Mr. Anderton, Mr. Knightley? Why did he come to Donwell on these two occasions?" asked Emma.

"Mr. Dickenson and Mr. Anderton's father have been close friends since they were children in Rochester, and Mr. Dickenson came to Donwell on behalf of Mr. Anderton's father."

Emma's eyes went even wilder. Though in the past Agnes had spoken to Emma about her grandmother as she was the one who taught Agnes's superior embroidery skills, not a word about her grandfather was ever mentioned. As Emma knew that Agnes's grandmother had passed away, she reckoned that the same must be true for her grandfather. However, now that she knew Agnes's grandfather was still living, why had not her friend ever spoken of him? And why would he be separated from the rest of his family?

Mr. Knightley watched Emma's facial expression changed from one of bewilderment to concerned, he went on to tell her more.

"Two weeks ago as well as last night, Mr. Dickenson had come here to bid Mr. Anderton to go to his father, but Mr. Anderton refused on both occasions."

For someone who had loved her papa with all her heart her entire life, it was beyond Emma's comprehension that a son should refuse to see his father. Emma shook her head in confusion. "Why is Mr. Anderton's father separated from Mr. Anderton's family?" asked she. "And... and... why would Mr. Anderton refuse to see his father, Mr. Knightley? Does not he care about his own father?"

"Emma, something happened to Mr. Anderton's mother when Mr. Anderton was in her womb. Out of respect for Mr. Anderton's privacy, I am not at the liberty to tell you what had happened. But Mr. Anderton had never met his father all his life, and there had been some misunderstanding between them that caused him unwilling to go to his father."

"You mean... Mr. Anderton had never even _met _his father before?"

"No, they had never met nor spoken before. But Mr. Anderton's father has been searching for him for a long time and wishing to be reunited with him and his family. Unfortunately, due to the misunderstanding on Mr. Anderton's side, he refused Mr. Dickenson's requests on both occasions. And Mr. Dickenson came to the Abbey last night asking for my service to convince Mr. Anderton to go to Rochester to see his father."

Mr. Anderton's disrespect for the rich, and his distrust in others had been known facts to Emma since she befriended Agnes. Nevertheless, Emma had on good authority that Mr. Knightley, for what he had done for the Andertons, his honourable characters and his kindness to all people, had the complete respect from Mr. Anderton, she was not surprised to hear that Mr. Dickenson had come to Mr. Knightley for help.

"You were able to convince Mr. Anderton, were not you, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley nodded.

"Well done, Mr. Knightley!" Emma rejoiced. "How wonderful! What family would not wish to be with each other? No matter what the reason for the separation between Mr. Anderton and his father, it is only right that the family should be together!

"Does it mean that Agnes's grandfather shall be coming to Donwell to be with his family?" asked Emma, with bright eyes and hopeful smiles.

"Emma..." Mr. Knightley looked even graver, "Mr. Anderton's father's family is one of the oldest families in Rochester, they have a large estate and Mr. Anderton is the firstborn son in the family..."

Emma's brows instantly furrowed. The revelation that Mr. Anderton, who had been known to everyone as a farm-servant, was a gentleman's son had not the slightest effect on her; her mind was captured by something else – she was too intelligent to miss Mr. Knightley's meaning. In a split second, her bright eyes had turned dull, and her hopeful smiles were swept away by disappointment.

Mr. Knightley could not bear to see the change in her.

"Does it mean..." suddenly, Emma grew very quiet, "does it mean... that... Agnes shall be leaving Donwell... _and_..."

She could not go on, the prick in her throat had caught her quiet voice, and she looked down at her hands trying to contain the tears that were threatening to break out.

Mr. Knightley placed his gentle hands on Emma's shoulders, meaning to comfort her and reassure her that he would always be there for her. But he had to answer her question honestly.

"Emma, I am not certain if the Andertons shall leave Donwell, but... I would not be surprised if... they do."

A quiet sob broke out of Emma, and it smote Mr. Knightley's heart. Tear drops were dripping onto her hands silently. Mr. Knightley took the brand new handkerchief that Emma had just given him, lifted her wet hands placing them in his large palm and began wiping the tears off her hands. Emma would not look up; she gently removed the handkerchief from Mr. Knightley's hands to wipe the tears in her eyes.

Still looking down, Emma whispered brokenly, "Besides... you and Miss Taylor... Agnes... is my only friend..." her sob continued.

"Emma," Mr. Knightley said tenderly, "Miss Taylor and I shall always be your friends... and there will be other friends to come."

Emma only gave a helpless nod. She wiped her tears again and in an even quieter voice told Mr. Knightley, "I think I should go home now..."

"I shall walk you back to Hartfield," Mr. Knightley's voice was almost as quiet as Emma's.

But Emma shook her head, still could not look up, she wished to be alone.

Mr. Knightley obeyed Emma's wishes and let her walked on ahead alone. But noiselessly, he and Wobble trailed a distance behind her to ascertain that his precious young friend (and the puppy's mistress) safely reached her home.

* * *

**A/N: **Over the course of writing this story, I have grown to love and enjoy the Andertons very much. This family, especially Agnes, have played a substantial role in Emma's life in this story, but as they are my OCs, they cannot stay in the story for too long! Their exodus will come in the next chapter, and I shall miss them very much!

As always, thank you so much for reading! :)


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

* * *

It had been three weeks since Mr. Anderton embarked on his journey to Rochester, during this time he had written to Mrs. Anderton on several occasions. In his missives to his wife, Mr. Anderton confessed that the day he set off, he had held much reservation for the father he had never met in his forty years of life, so much reservation that there were times he almost asked the coachman of the Donwell carriage to turn back to Donwell, where he felt safe living with the grudge and hatred that had been his constant companion for five long years.

Nevertheless, the words of Mr. Knightley rang in his ears, "_...d__o not you think that your mother would have liked to know the truth – from her husband's own words_?" Would his mother have liked to know the truth? He had no doubt. But what if the truth was not what Mr. Knightley had presented... what if his father lied in his letter... what if the man was everything that he had been led to believe by his wretched wife? Why should he risk the possibility of worsening the wound of his life... yet... could that abyss wound of his even be worsen? Perhaps it was the sickening yearning in him that drove him to long to know the truth, not so much for his mother's sake, but for his own.

The day his mother died he had declared that God did not exist. How could any god allow such injustice to happen to his mother? How could any god treat such kind loving mother, faithful wife with so much cruelty? And how could any god let cold-blooded murderers live free? But the moment when he saw his father, he was no longer certain that God did not exist...

He had followed the instruction his father wrote in his letter, rather than asking for Mr. Streatfeild, he had asked for Mr. Streatfeild's valet. On their way to the chamber of the Master of the Streatfeild estate, walking up the staircase, they met Mr. Streatfeild's wife, her stares that curdled one's blood, her scornful nostrils that burnt one's eyes, her contemptuous smirk that made one wished one could tear her face in pieces. The blood of his entire body immediately gushed to his balled-fists, and it had taken every morsels of his self control to bridle the fiery urge to wring the neck of that heartless woman!

But when he walked into the dimly lit bedchamber where his father laid, he saw a dying man on his back, breathing weakly in his bed, there was a sense of calmness that overcame him. His reservation, his weariness, his anger, his hatred all seemed to silently slip out of his soul when his father reached his skin-and-bone hand feebly for his. He saw tears trickling down unceasingly from his father's eyes – but they were not tears of sadness, they were tears of love, tears of joy, and tears of hope! His own tears broke out freely from his eyes as he knelt by his father's side and took his hand. He heard his father whispered, gasping on his every breath, his father told him that he loved him, that he had loved his mother all his life! Through the tender gazes that voiced the depth of their hearts, they were no longer strangers, the souls of the father and son were knitted together as if they had never been apart; forgiveness was asked and given without even a blink of those teary eyes.

His father had left him with his last words, last words that would forever free his spirit from the anger and hatred that had almost consumed him, his father said to him, "I am going to be with your mother now, son!" He watched his father took his last breath – but death did not become him! When his father shut his eyes, he brought with him a glorious smile – along with hope, peace, and undying love – into eternity.

The reading of his father's will was complete, and his father's last wish was to be buried, not under the ground in his Rochester estate where a long list of his ancient ancestors were laid to rest, but alongside his mother. His mother was buried in a land of nowhere, and of no one's; they were on the move when she died, and had not the means to transport her remains back to Longfield, where she had lived for thirty five years and called the Anderton's duck farm her home. But it did not matter to his father, he knew his soul would be reunited with his beloved wife's, and he wished to be certain that his bones were with hers as well.

Though it was within his every right to inherit his father's estate, and it was his father's will to restore his eldest son's birthright upon their reunion, Mr. Anderton had declined his rights to the estate, he wanted no part of the ugliness in fighting with the woman who ruined his family, nor had he the desire to engage in a legal battle to reclaim his birthright against the son of that woman. But even more importantly, he did not wish any part of the blood wealth that caused the long sufferings and separation of his parents – and ultimately took his mother's life.

Nevertheless, Mr. Anderton had longed to return to his hometown Longfield, the only place where he felt he truly belonged, where lived the family that saved his mother's life and took her in when she was in despair. For thirty five years, Mr. Anderton and his mother had lived with Farmer Anderton and his wife, the childless couple, who were his godparents and his children's god-grandparents, loved him and his family like their own. During his time at Rochester, Mr. Anderton had gone and visited Farmer and Mrs. Anderton, and decided to restore his family back to Longfield upon his return to Donwell.

* * *

The days during Mr. Anderton was in Rochester, Agnes and Emma both knew what would happen once Agnes's father returned. Little were said regarding Agnes's genteel parentage, nor the tragic events that happened to her grandparents and the Andertons, the two girls went on their daily lives pretending nothing unusual had taken place. With her mother's approval, Agnes resumed her visits to Hartfield, and Emma continued to pay her calls at the Anderton's cottage with Miss Taylor. As with in the past, they took their walks in the Hartfield shrubberies and the Donwell gardens as exercise, they spent time reading together again, and Agnes went on coaxing Emma into her singing and pianoforte practices with more embroidery lessons. But the joy, the good cheers, the ready wit, the merry chatters that the two friends had shared no longer came so freely. Their walks that were once blithe and sprightly were now heavy and subdued; the adventures in '_Robinson Crusoe_' no longer seemed as amusing as it used to be, and they knew it was not because those adventures had finally been worn off after so many readings; Emma tried her hardest to sing and play the pianoforte for Agnes, but her voice sounded strained and her playing lacked lustre. Each day that had gone by brought closer to the day that the two friends shall be apart, and each new passing moment tugged unkindly at the string in their hearts that dragged their tender spirits.

* * *

After three weeks of absence, Mr. Anderton finally returned, and another two weeks, the inevitable had arrived.

It was the morning of their removal, the belongings of the family had been packed; Mr. Anderton was at the field in the Donwell home-farm examining the drainage work for the last time.

"Good morning, Anderton," the voice of the Donwell Master cordially greeted him from behind.

As soon as he heard the gentleman's voice, Mr. Anderton turned round, "Good morning, Mr. Knightley!" greeting his master with utmost warmth and respect.

"Why did not it surprise me that you were here this morning?" Mr. Knightley smiled.

"I just wanted to take one last look, ascertaining that I did not miss a spot last night," Mr. Anderton smiled sheepishly at Mr. Knightley.

"You have done an excellent job with our drainage, Anderton, I am certain that we shall have one of the best harvests comes harvesting time!"

Feeling embarrassed by Mr. Knightley's praises, Mr. Anderton shook his head and ran his fingers through his thick hair. "I meant to call on you at the Abbey before we take our leave," he said a moment later.

"You and your family are ready for your journey?"Mr. Knightley inquired warmly.

"Hmm..." Mr. Anderton nodded contemplatively. "It is still hard to believe that we are finally going home!" his eyes reflecting the multitude of emotions he was feeling inside, "The past five years had been a nightmare... there were times I had thought that I would never be wakened from this nightmare for as long as I live!"

"But the nightmare ended," reminded Mr. Knightley with a kind smile.

"Yes," Mr. Anderton admitted. A genuine smile broke out of his face – it was the first time Mr. Knightley ever saw him smile, a smile, Mr. Knightley reckoned, that had taken years off the man's face.

"I am ready to put my family's life back together," Mr. Anderton went on, "nothing shall ever bring my mother back," he said wistfully, "but at least she is resting in peace with my father now."

There was a moment of silence while Mr. Anderton gathered his thoughts. He then broke the silence and asked, "Mr. Knightley... may I have a request?"

"Certainly, Anderton, what is it?" replied Mr. Knightley.

"Mr. Knightley," mindfully, Mr. Anderton proceeded, "as you probably know, for months I had forbidden Agnes befriending Miss Woodhouse..."

Mr. Knightley nodded, curious of what was on Mr. Anderton's mind.

Mr. Anderton drew a long sigh. "I have been an impertinent man to Miss Woodhouse and an unreasonable father to Agnes, Mr. Knightley!" The voice of the father was filled with regrets.

"The hardship of the last five years had taken an unspeakable toll on my family," Mr. Anderton said gravely. "The constant moving not only took my mother's life, it had ruined Agnes's health! Agnes was once a happy child, everyone loved her for her smiles and lively spirit, but the life she endured in these five years had robbed her of her health, her childhood, and her cheerful self!

"Agnes has always been a wonderful daughter to me and my wife, and a loving sister to her younger siblings, and she bears everything so well, even when life has been difficult to her. She was only ten when we were forced to leave our home, but I suppose she was old enough to understand what was happening. Though she never uttered a word of complaint, or asked why we kept on moving, I could see it in her eyes that she knew everything that was happening to her grandmother and our family, and she had been keeping them silently in her little soul!"

Mr. Knightley had been fixing his eyes on the penitent father, listening attentively to his every word.

"We had never stayed long enough in a place for Agnes to make a friend, even when she had made an acquaintance with some neighbour's daughter, as soon as the malicious rumours began, no one was willing to have anything to do with our family, let alone befriending our children. I could tell that Agnes's loneliness and the constant ridicule from others were slowly eating her up, and there was nothing I could do about it!

"But not long after we came to Donwell, I began to notice changes in her... she was smiling and speaking a little more, the colour on her face had slowly returned, even her constitution was improving. For months the simpleton in me thought that it was because of the air in Donwell was agreeable with her constitution, and it was not until after my return from Rochester that my wife had enlightened me with the true cause of Agnes's improvements."

"And may I ask what the true cause was?" inquired Mr. Knightley.

"It was her friendship with Miss Woodhouse, Mr. Knightley!" said Mr. Anderton feelingly. "Ever since we left Longfield, Agnes had not had a friend until we came to Donwell. My wife told me that Miss Woodhouse has always treated our family, particularly Agnes, with kindness and respect, she was the one who bought the blind puppy that Agnes begged me to keep but I refused, she was the first person to believe in my innocence in the Abbey Mill Farm theft when everyone else thought I was a thief, Miss Woodhouse was the one who refused to leave my daughters behind at the abandoned brewery and saved my children from those French prisoners... if I were not such a bitter _fool_, I would have seen the friendship, the kindness, and the respect that Miss Woodhouse has been offering to Agnes have restored the hope in her and brightened up her depressive outlook on life!

"Mr. Knightley, my years of grudges and prejudice against the rich had _blinded_ me and caused me to forbid Agnes's friendship with Miss Woodhouse!" The rueful father drew a long and regretful sigh, "It was fortunate that my wife and children only abided by my order half-heartedly, otherwise I would have been the very person who robbed the joy of my _own_ daughter!" Mr. Anderton said fervently.

Watching his remorsefulness penetrating Mr. Anderton, Mr. Knightley could not help but step in, "You are too harsh on yourself, Anderton. Miss Anderton is a young lady with deep understanding, I am certain that she understood the reason behind your hesitation for her friendship with Miss Woodhouse was to protect her from what you thought as unforeseeable harm, and she would never wish to see you in distress for loving her the only way you knew how."

Though Mr. Anderton was grateful for Mr. Knightley's words of comfort, he was not about to forgive himself. The man sounded even gloomier, "But I am _ashamed_ of my insolence toward Miss Woodhouse, Mr. Knightley!"

"Anderton," Mr. Knightley hastened to speak, "I can assure you that Miss Woodhouse holds no ill feelings for your previous apprehension!"

"But Mr. Knightley... would you do me the favour of conveying my apology to Miss Woodhouse?" the contrite man implored.

"Are you certain, Anderton? I do not think Miss Woodhouse feels such apology necessary."

"I am certain, Mr. Knightley, as it is improper for me to call on or write to Miss Woodhouse, but I wish her to know how much I regret my forbiddance in her friendship with Agnes... my conscience would not be easy if my regrets were not conveyed! Would you do me the favour, Mr. Knightley?"

The sincerity in Mr. Anderton moved Mr. Knightley to grant his request graciously, "In that case, it would be my honour, Anderton."

"I am obliged to you, Mr. Knightley!" Mr. Anderton said with an immense sense of relief. He then lifted his eyes to the sky searching for the position of the sun and said, "I suppose it is time that we should take our leave..." regrets and anticipation comingled within him.

Mr. Knightley nodded.

"Mr. Knightley," Mr. Anderton looked earnestly into Mr. Knightley's eyes, his own eyes betraying the immeasurable gratitude pervading his heart, "thank you for_ all_ that you have done for my family and me!"

Mr. Knightley shook his head attempting to stop Mr. Anderton, "Pray, Anderton, there is no need..." but he did not succeed.

"There _is _indeed the need, Mr. Knightley!" Mr. Anderton insisted. "If it were not because of you, I may still be bearing the name of a thief and shun by everyone in Donwell and Highbury, if it were not because of you, my family would not even have scraps to get through autumn and winter – and – if it were not because of _you_, I would _never_ have read my father's letter... perhaps would continue to live in the nightmare for the rest of my life – and I would only have myself to blame!

"For the hundredth time, Mr. Knightley – _thank you_! My family and I are forever in your debt!"

Mr. Anderton reached out both his grateful hands for Mr. Knightley's, and the two gentlemen shook hands bidding their farewells with thorough sincerity and goodwill.

* * *

While Mr. Knightley and Mr. Anderton were in the fields bidding their farewells, Emma and Miss Taylor had come to the Andertons at their cottage for the last time. The two friends, Emma and Agnes, took a short walk on Willow's Lane to the gate of the Thompson Farm where their friendship began. Many sweet, as well as some bitter, memories flooded their minds and hearts as they walked down the lane. They could not help but marvelled at how it all began – Who would have thought that out of the mutual love for a little blind puppy could sprout the unlikely friendship between two girls from two very different worlds! They could remember vividly how Emma's innocent suggestion to meet at the Abbey Mill Farm had agitated Agnes furiously, which, in turn, stirred Emma's curiosity, her compassion, and consequently led to a course of events that had changed the entire Anderton family's life. Though Emma had thought very little of her own credit, in Agnes's heart, she and her family shall be forever in her friend's debt for believing in her father's innocence and standing up to Mr. Knightley, who eventually uncovered the truth in the Abbey Mill Farm thefts and restored her father's good name.

Agnes still felt embarrassed for mistaking Mr. Knightley for a severe man in their first meeting, but only on the next day came to realize that the Donwell Master was really the epitome of a gentleman in the truest sense – and her mischievous friend had not let her live it down ever since!

Fondly, the two friends recollected the delightful times they spent at Hartfield and Donwell Abbey, the romantic nooks and niches that they discovered in the woods, near the bridge, or by the brooks. They had gone back to the river where the family of Mr. Ottasquire lived. The images of the amusing looks from Mr. and Mrs. Ottasquire, their two cubs, the frogs and the water voles when Agnes slid into the muddy river dragging Emma into it were still fresh in their minds and tickled their senses to a giggling fit! But their giggles quickly turned into sobering quivers when they recalled how their ghost-hunt adventure spiralling into a dangerous encounter with two escaped French prisoners, and they thanked the Almighty again for letting them come out of the plight unscathed.

Though Emma and Agnes had only been friends for a little over half a year, it had felt like as if they had known one another for a lifetime. Their beautiful friendship had brought hope to the grim world of a very lonely peasant girl, who had endured far too much hardship in her young life; and the same friendship had brightened up the life of a young mistress, whose existence, to many, seemed to embody the best blessings on earth, but, as the peasant girl was caught in her tragic circumstance, the young mistress was trapped in the confined world built around her.

If only time could be stilled, they would not be facing the inevitable, but it was time that they retraced their steps back to the Anderton's cottage where Agnes shall take her leave with her family; tears that had been fought back fervidly were now welling in both girls' eyes.

"Did not we say _no_ tears?" Agnes reproached Emma.

Rubbing her wet eyes and sniffling ardently, Emma protested, "These... are not... tears... just dust... dust... in my eyes..."

"You... silly... silly girl... are... a... terrible... terrible liar..." Agnes choked through her entire speech.

"You... goose... you have... you have dust... in... your eyes... too..." brokenly, Emma returned.

With might, Agnes wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands, while Emma blew her nose dolefully into her handkerchief. Hot tears were smeared on their fervent cheeks, and their red swollen eyes had made both of them look utterly disconsolate. Nevertheless, no matter how much sadness and sorrows affected them both, the keen sense of humour in these two happy-natured girls still reigned! Their pitiful attempt to deny their tears and the horn-blowing sound from Emma's nose had launched the two friends into gales of lovely laughter.

And when the sound of their laughter had faded, slowly and quietly, they turned round and walked until the Anderton's cottage was in sight. But before they reached the cottage, Emma halted Agnes and bade her to stay where she was while she ran into the house to Miss Taylor, who was bidding her farewell with Mrs. Anderton inside the Anderton's home. Within couple of minutes, Emma came back with a parcel in her hands.

Handing the bundle to Agnes, Emma panted, "This... is... for you..."

"What is it, Emma?" asked Agnes, taken utterly by surprise.

"I want you to have it... open it..." pleaded Emma sincerely.

With bewilderment on her face, Agnes began to untie the pretty ribbon wrapped round the bundle. She carefully peeled off part of the delicate tissue paper, and inside the bundle revealed the bodice of a beautiful white frock. Just one look, Agnes was able to recognize the exquisite white cambric from the dress that she had once worn in Hartfield. She gasped!

"I _cannot_ accept this, Emma!" Agnes refused hurriedly.

"Why _not_?" Emma asked earnestly.

"_Because_... _because_... have not I told you many times, Emma? Your dresses are for gentleman's daughter... and I..."

"And _you_" Emma promptly interrupted Agnes, "are _every_ bit a gentleman's daughter, Agnes! You can no longer use '_your dresses are for gentleman's daughter__' _as a reason! You grandfather was a gentleman, and your father, by blood and by character, is a gentleman in every sense of the word, which makes you as much a gentleman's daughter as I am! You looked beautiful in this dress, Agnes, I saw it with my own eyes and I want others to see how beautiful you are!"

"But Emma..." Agnes was still hesitant, "I... I shall continue to live a peasant's life... what am I to do with a beautiful dress like this?"

"You silly goose," Emma beamed brightly at her friend, "you could wear it to country assemblies, or weddings, and... and on Sundays you could wear it to church! I want you to show others how beautiful you look in this dress!"

"But this is the dress that you wore at your sister's wedding... does it not have great sentimental meaning to you, Emma? Are you sure that you wish to part with it?"

Without a vestige of hesitation, Emma nodded. Her hazel eyes glistening as she looked into Agnes's grey eyes and spoke from her tender heart, "This dress indeed holds great sentimental meaning to me, my sister Isabella sewed the laces on the hem of the dress with her own hands the night before her wedding... _just_ for me..." Emma swiped her wet eyes briskly, and swallowed the clump constricting her throat, "But our friendship is far _dearer_ to me than this dress, Agnes! I do not know if we shall ever meet again... but whenever you wear this dress, or even look at it... I hope you will remember how _dear_ you are to me... and I hope you will remember me... _always_... as your friend!"

Overcame by Emma's sincerity and her own heartaches, Agnes could no longer stand there – she flung herself at Emma and threw her arms about her neck, crying passionately into her shoulder, "I shall _never_ forget you Emma... I shall _always_ remember you in my heart... you will _always_ be _dearest_ to me, Emma... for as long as I _live_!"

For a long moment the two friends were wrapped in each other's arms tightly. Their pitiful attempts to deny their tears were abandoned, and both of them no longer held their tears back. Tears of sadness that mourned their parting, tears of joy that celebrated their friendship, and tears of love that would always bind the tender hearts of these two innocent friends were allowed to flow freely down their cheeks.

* * *

The tears on her face had dried and her slander torso was leaning on the wooden fence, behind which stood the Hartfield diary-cow. Heedless to the cold wind that pierced her tear-stained face, Emma stared aimlessly into the wintry meadows.

"_Moooo..."_

As with many times in the past, Emma had come to Mrs. Isabel for comfort, but when her diary-cow friend greeted her warmly, she found herself unable to be consoled.

"_Mooooo_..."

Mrs. Isabel called again, only empty gazes were returned, still no words from her human friend.

"_Moooooooooo..._"

But when Mrs. Isabel called the third time, a comforting voice gently broke Emma's reverie.

"How is Mrs. Isabel today?"

Emma did not look up, she only replied spiritlessly, "I have not been coming to see her for quite some time..."

"You have not the need to come see Mrs. Isabel lately," explained the gentle voice.

"Do you think she would forgive me for neglecting her for so long?" she asked quietly.

The owner of the gentle voice smiled kindly at her. "Mrs. Isabel is a true friend, Emma. I am sure that rather than being upset with you for not coming, she has been very glad for you for not needing to come. And judging from the sound of her _'Mooo'_ this morning, I dare say she was trying to coax a smile from her favourite human friend!"

Emma finally looked up with amusement – How was it that Mr. Knightley always knew where and when to find her? And how was it that Mr. Knightley was always able to give her comfort when everything and everyone else could not? She bestowed her grown-up friend a soft smile, which, compared to the disheartening expression on her face only moments ago, was already a vast improvement.

Emma turned her eyes back to Mrs. Isabel, but moments later she looked up at Mr. Knightley again and asked, "Do you think I shall ever meet another friend like Agnes, Mr. Knightley?"

"Hum..." the gentleman was thoughtful. "It depends, Emma, true friends are not easy to come by."

"But I am not asking to have as many friends as you do, Mr. Knightley, just one..." imparted the fourteen-year-old.

"You think I have many friends, Emma?" Mr. Knightley was surprised by her remark.

Emma nodded.

"I see," said Mr. Knightley. "Why do you think I have many friends, Emma?" He was curious.

"Well... you are always visiting someone or going somewhere, there is always a meeting waiting for you every day, whether is it a meeting with Mr. Larkins, a parish meeting, a meeting with the local solicitor or John in London, or some fairs in a different town. You know so many people and have friends no matter where you are!"

"Most of the people you just named are acquaintances, Emma. I may have many acquaintances, but most of them cannot be called my friend, especially not my true friend."

"Then..." the inquisitive Emma was intrigued, "what do you wish for in a true friend, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley thought that was an interesting inquiry, to which he had never given much thought. He pondered at it for a brief moment, and his first reply was, "To me, a true friend is someone who knows me well, knows my likes and dislikes..."

"You mean the person should know that you prefer your coffee black, your eggs soft but not too soft, that you like your toast almost burnt, and know that you prefer pork over chicken, but beef over pork?"

Mr. Knightley chuckled. "Perhaps not only my likes and dislikes in food, Emma!"

"Then," Emma's tone turned very serious, "the person must know that you dislike it excessively when someone speaks unkindly behind another's back, particularly among your servants or your tenants; the person should also know that you refuse forming an opinion on anyone before you have the chance to know the person yourself; and if the person _really_ knows you, he would know that you always give your full attention unless you are distracted by your worries for one of your tenants or a family in distress, trying to conceive a way to give them relief!"

Emma was not done, she took a quick breath and went on, "And of course whoever your true friend is should respect the times when you wish to be alone walking in the field or in the woods, for that is when and where you do most of your thinking, because the limitless sky, the rich scent of the earth, the refreshing sound of streaming water in the brooks, and the gentle chirpings of the birds inspire you and help opening your mind!"

Mr. Knightley opened his mouth to reply but no word came! Since when had his young friend known him so well? Even he himself could not have named this catalogue of his likes and dislikes in one sitting, yet, they had rolled out of Emma's tongue without effort!

The young lady stared at the gentleman bewilderedly, wondering what had caused the awestruck look on her elegant friend's face.

"What else do you wish for in a true friend, Mr. Knightley?" she asked impatiently, breaking the gentleman's musing.

Mr. Knightley blinked. He cleared his throat before speaking, "Ah... yes... a true friend is one who is honest with me, who respects my opinion but is not afraid to stand against it..."

"Such as..." Emma's mind churned, "the time when you believed that Mr. Anderton was the one who committed the Abbey Mill Farm theft, but I disagreed with you and insisted that you were mistaken?"

Mr. Knightley nodded and smiled, "Precisely!"

"And what else?" the young lady's inquisitiveness could not be curbed.

Emma's insatiable curiosity was one of her many traits that Mr. Knightley admired and strived to encourage whenever he could, the gentleman searched deeply in his heart for another attribute he looked for in a friend, a true friend that was. As he focused his thought on the matter a notion was beginning to form in his mind.

"A _true_ friend..." the gentleman spoke aloud as he sought to understand the notion, "is someone... who... understands me... understands my thoughts and circumstances... able to see beyond the surface... to... reach the feelings inside..." suddenly reckoned that such attribute seemed too much to wish for in anyone, Mr. Knightley stopped midway in his speech.

Emma fell into silence, pondering at Mr. Knightley's new revelation. Contemplatively, she looked up at him, with reverence and understanding, she said, "Like the days after Mrs. Knightley passed away..."

The sudden mentioning of his mother caused Mr. Knightley to hold his breath.

"... those days..." Emma's hazel eyes were overflowing with feelings, "you went on your business, visiting your tenants, meeting with Mr. Larkins, you came to sit with Papa, Isabella and I at night as you often did... you would not speak of how you felt, how much you had missed your father and your mother, and how much you dreaded John leaving for Cambridge... there were no sparkles, only sadness in your eyes... you kept on caring for everyone else's feelings... except.. your own?"

Mr. Knightley swallowed – he never thought that anyone had noticed, for he took great care to not display a hint of his sadness during those days. He was the head of the family, the Master of Donwell, everyone, from his younger brother, William Larkins, Mrs. Hodges, to his labourers, his tenants, looked up to him, looked to him to guide and lead them, looked to him to sustain their hopes and give them strengths. It would have done them a disservice to stir their worries, to let them see their master unable to cope with his losses – But how could a girl of not even ten years of age see beyond his brave facade when everyone else could not?

Once again, Emma had left Mr. Knightley wordless! All he could muster was – a strained nod.

Emma had compressed her crimson lips, and was shaking her youthful head. "Mr. Knightley," with knitted brows she looked helplessly into his eyes, "you _do _know that these are rare qualities that you are looking for, do not you?" Just now the fourteen-year-old sounded like a forty-year-old. Covering her heart with both hands the young lady sighed, "I wish you _all_ the luck in England in finding a true friend!"

Upon hearing Emma's sincere wish, Mr. Knightley almost burst out laughing – marvelling at the fact that at times his clever young friend could be quite adorably daft! The gentleman was certain that he needed not any luck in England or in the world in finding a true friend – for he already had one!

Mr. Knightley suppressed his laughter just in time to hear Emma reveal wistfully, "As for me, I do not wish that much in my friend, I only want someone to take walks and read adventures with me, listen to my singing and practicing at the pianoforte in exchange for embroidery lessons, visit my creature friends with me... hum... " she paused and thought some more, "...listen to my woes and fancies... and of course I would like to be useful to her!"

"Someone _just_ like Miss Anderton?" supplied Mr. Knightley.

"_Hum_..." she gave a small nod and looked down at her hands with a dangling tear, "someone... _just..._ like Agnes..." she faltered.

"Emma," Mr. Knightley placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, blinking her tear away, Emma looked up at him softly, "give it some time, one day you will find a new friend, she might not be just like Miss Anderton, but she could be just as dear."

Mr. Knightley's kind encouragement brought a quiet sigh from the disheartened Emma.

"In the mean time," the gentleman smiled, there were twinkles in his eyes, "would you settle for _someone_ who would listen to you sing and play the pianoforte in exchange for his honest opinions and enthusiastic applause?"

Emma slowly looked up at Mr. Knightley, her eyes glinting a little brightly, and her face began to light up, there were even curls on the corners of her lips.

"And" the gentleman continued, "would you settle for _someone_, who, though cannot offer you embroidery lessons, would give you lessons of life when it suits you?"

The young lady raised an amused eyebrow, and said, repressing her smile, "_Perhaps_..."

"And would you settle for _someone_, who, though, upon his life, would refuse to be dragged into a muddy river to see an otter family, knows and appreciates your friendly creatures of all kinds and sizes, particularly a certain golden spaniel, residing at his estate, whose name is _Wobble_?"

No longer repressing her brilliant smile, the angelic features of Emma had finally come alive! She gave Mr. Knightley a very smug answer, "_I_ _suppose_..."

Mr. Knightley was delighted to see the return of Emma's marked sauciness. Armed with the assurance that her depressed spirit had been temporarily lifted, the gentleman grinned at the young lady and bade her one last inquiry, "Then, would you be willing to settle for _someone_," his grin widened, "who, rather than taking a walk with you... would _race_ you to the house?"

Emma's brilliant smile instantly turned into a playful grin, as playful as the one on Mr. Knightley's face!

"And that _someone_," her eyes lilting in rascal light as her fingers crept to gather her skirt, "is going to _lose_!" the young lady declared gloriously.

In a flash, the fourteen-year-old was gone!

Watching Emma sprinting off like the coastal gale, her long curls blowing in the air like the sail of a packet hoist for the direction of Hartfield, Mr. Knightley quietly drifted into a reverie – He had wished for a friend worthy of little Emma since the day her mother died. Her friendship with Miss Anderton had been an answer to his private prayers, which was why the departure of the Andertons was as big a disappointment to him as it was to his young friend. The gentleman had hidden it well though, only his excitement for the Andertons' returning to their homeland could ever be detected. Nevertheless, now that his anxiety for Emma to find a worthy friend was renewed, he could only hope that it would not be another ten years before his wish would come true.

Deep in his reverie Mr. Knightley blew out a deep sigh, and a low pensive whisper pleaded at him, "_Give it some time__, Knightley, __the right friend for her will come_!"

Curious of where her rival was in the race, Emma turned round and was surprised to find that Mr. Knightley, looking decidedly distracted, was still standing where she had left him. The young lady came to an abrupt halt and placed both hands on her waist; looking exasperated, she called out from her lungs, "Come, Mr. Knightley! What are you waiting for?"

Even from a distance, Mr. Knightley could see the mischievous sparkles from Emma's luminous hazel eyes darting at his direction. And before he had time to answer, he heard her declaring, "To _LOSE_?"

Once again, giggling wildly, the young lady bolted off, purposely leaving a dusty trail for her grown-up friend to tread behind her.

Being thoroughly awakened from his reverie by such provoking declaration, and amused by how his young friend's impertinence could always lighten his heart, the pensive gentleman broke into a magnificent laughter! How many times had he purposely let Emma win their races? He had lost count! After all, watching her angelic face basking in her marked sauciness was far more satisfying to him than winning any races. But he could not let her know that he had let her win intentionally, could he?

Now that he was left with no other alternatives, after shaking his dismayed head and tucking away his chuckles, the gentleman, gulping a deep and full breath, and, on the dusty trail that was purposely left behind for him, turned on his ever agile heels to chase after the nonsensical girl – who – also happened to be his one true friend!

* * *

**A/N: **Ever wonder why Emma was so certain that Harriet was a gentleman's daughter? Yes, it was because of Agnes... at least it was in my world! ;D

It was really hard for me to say goodbye to the Andertons, especially Agnes... but I assure you, they shall lead a happy life back in the duck farm!

I had stocked up fifteen chapters before I started posting Young Emma last year, but over time real life happened and I got very distracted, haven't been able to keep the weekly posting schedule, and the stock of chapters kept on depleting, and now I barely have two left. I'm currently stuck on chapter 37... as the story is at a natural place to break, I am going to stop posting for a while, need time to work on my stock, need to make sure that the story is coherent between chapters. It may be couple or a few months before I would post again.

Thank you so much for reading, for your reviews and kind words, every comment has been precious to me (even the occasional criticism has given me much food for thoughts!) :) Until we meet again, I bid you happiness and good health, and a happy summer... or winter... wherever you are! :D


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

* * *

If April was the month that sprang winter into spring, told signs of jubilance, lives that had been dormant coming awake, the metamorphosis of brown and grey and everything insipid into all that were cheerful; if April sang the songs of budding almond-blossoms, painted the first shades of orchards and rolling fruit-trees, preluded the sonnets of the exquisite months of May, June and summer; and if April was meant for boasting the buoyancy of youth, revealing the resilience of spirits, exhibiting the enviable gaiety of young mistresses – then – April had cruelly left the young Hartfield Mistress behind!

It had been more than two months since the removal of the Andertons, yet the dullness that tarnished Emma's sparkling eyes, the languor that transmuted the lively lass into an inert portrait, and the unbearable ennui that tarried within the damsel had defied all forces of nature and kept the young mistress in the glumness of an England winter mood.

Everyone at Hartfield and Donwell Abbey participated in rousing Emma's sunken spirit, from her gentle governess Miss Taylor, her grown-up friend Mr. Knightley, her beloved pet Wobble and dairy cow Mrs. Isabel, to the kind Donwell housekeeper Mrs. Hodges and the faithful old Abbey footman Harry, all their effort were proven futile. Albeit on previous occasions, with their culinary excellence, Serle and Mrs. Mayson had successfully coxed many sweet-toothily smiles from the young mistress, regrettably, the two talented cooks, this time, had failed miserably to strike a tiny glimmer in the eyes of the sweet lass.

Even her maid Kate, on the much celebrated first day of April, a day which Emma had enjoyed mischievously every year since she could toddle, tried all her might to enliven her beloved mistress...

"_Miss Emma... would not you wish me to go to the market... and... look for peas that are as big as apples for supper? You had wished them last year... but I could find none! – Ah... what about asking Mr. Cutts for the hindquarter of a pig named Robin Hood? You had said that the flesh of a pig named after a legend ought to be most tender... I could look for it again if you wish? – Oh... Did you hear wolves howling last night as you did the night before last All Fool's Day? Should I send the footmen looking for wolves again? There might still be wolves in England after all! – Or... I could attach the sketch of the fish you drew as I did last year on Serle's back, I promise I would be more discreet this time, Serle says he would not chase me with a cleaver when I do... would you wish it, Miss Emma?"_

...but all that the good-hearted servant girl received from her young mistress was a dispirited _"Thank you, Kate... not this year..."_

* * *

April had turned to May, there were still little signs of improvement on the young mistress's depressed spirit.

It was the morning of a glorious May day, in the elegant drawing room at Hartfield, where Mr. Woodhouse was thumbing the advertiser pages from the previous week looking for the advertisement of _Whitehead's Essence of Mustard Pills_ for rheumatisms, Miss Taylor working on the embroidery of her sister's handkerchief, and Emma standing sedately by the window, hands gently pressing on the windowpane, staring aimlessly at the scenery outside.

While the three Hartfield inhabitants were engrossed in their own sequestered worlds, their attentions were broken by the unexpected greeting of a dear gentleman.

"Good morning, Mr. Woodhouse," Mr. Knightley, who was absent from Highbury and Donwell for the birth of his second nephew in London for a fortnight, had just walked in through the door to the garden, said warmly and bowed.

"Ah, Mr. Knightley, how good of you to come this morning," temporarily laying down his advertiser pages, Mr. Woodhouse returned the greetings cordially.

Mr. Knightley then turned to Miss Taylor, took his bow, and exchanged greetings with the governess.

Upon hearing the voice of her grown-up friend, the lady-statue by the window immediately turned to come to him. "Good morning, Mr. Knightley, I did not know that you were come back!"

"Good morning, Emma," Mr. Knightley smiled. "I rode back late last night, had it not been so late in the night, I would have come directly from my journey. And this morning William Larkins had come early to the Abbey for some urgent tenant matters, or I would have come as soon as the proper hour allowed."

"How are Isabella and the baby, Mr. Knightley?" Emma asked anxiously. "You last wrote that baby John was jaundice, has his colour improved?"

All three pairs of eyes, Emma's, Mr. Woodhouse's and Miss Taylor's, were looking imploringly at Mr. Knightley.

"Both mother and child are exceedingly well, Emma! And yes, little John's colour has improved considerably," the uncle gladly reported. "Though I could not be in the chamber while the infant nursed, according to John, he and Isabella had done everything they could in keeping little John awake while nursing, and our new nephew has been quite a compliant child, obeying his parents in drinking as much nourishment as he could. Dr. Wingfield suggested that some sunlight might help improve his colour, fortunately the warm sun in May has come in perfect time, little John's yellow colour was almost completely gone by the time I left last night."

"That is indeed great news!" Miss Taylor rejoiced, and Mr. Woodhouse echoed a sigh of relief.

Emma drew a long deep breath, remarked in a relieved, but still downcast, spirit, "Thank you for the... wonderful news... Mr. Knightley!" she squeezed her friend's forearm with heartfelt gratitude, and finishing with a soft smile, "I am very happy that Isabella and little John are well!"

As soon as she finished her speech, Emma returned to her lonesome window.

Mr. Woodhouse picked up his advertiser pages burying his nose in them again, leaving Miss Taylor and Mr. Knightley in the middle of the room, sharing concern gazes for her charge and his young friend.

"Has there been any improvement on Emma?" speaking lowly to Miss Taylor, having been gone for so many days, Mr. Knightley was anxious for the answer.

Shaking her head, Miss Taylor looked discouragingly at him. "She has been worrying about Isabella and little John... but other than that, nothing seems to rouse her!"

Mr. Knightley sighed, thanked Miss Taylor for the intelligence, and walked over to the window, to Emma.

"I have more good news for you, Emma," said the gentleman, badly hoping to lift his young friend's spirit with the next piece of news.

Emma looked up with little interest in her eyes, "What is it, Mr. Knightley?" she asked half-heartedly, lacking her marked inquisitiveness that often illuminated her face.

"It is about a friend coming back!" There was a deliberate smile on Mr. Knightley's face.

Emma's irises suddenly brightened, her eyebrows lifted with so much anticipation that it caused Mr. Knightley's heart to skip.

"Is Agnes coming back?" the young mistress almost leapt off the floor. Pressing Mr. Knightley's forearm with both her hands, she implored, "Are the Andertons moving back to Donwell, Mr. Knightley? Are they coming back?"

The air round the gentleman suddenly went vapid; the hopeful smile on Mr. Knightley's face instantly fell.

"Emma," he said calmly, "this morning Mrs. Hodges informed me that she had heard that Miss Fairfax was to visit Highbury for several weeks before she would go with the Campbells to Ireland for the summer."

"_O__-__h_..." was all Emma said, her hands on Mr. Knightley's forearm slipped, and the light in her eyes fainted.

"Emma," Mr. Knightley picked up his heart that sank when the smile on his face fell, dispelling the disappointment in his voice, he said, "you and Miss Fairfax used to be friends when you were children..."

Emma looked up at him with disheartened brows, "If being placed side by side in the same room by grown-ups, she played her doll when I played mine, her barely uttering more than two sentences while I did all the speaking the entire time... then... I suppose... we were friends..."

There was not a vestige of spitefulness in Emma's speech; in all truthfulness, the young lady, who had not always the warmest of feelings for Highbury's favourite niece, was only speaking from her heart. But anxious for Emma's spirit to recover, Mr. Knightley was not to be discouraged by her honesty.

"Emma," he said, "Miss Fairfax has been absent from Highbury for more than two years, her temperaments, her interests might have changed, you might find the two of you suit each other better now that you are older."

Emma's disheartened brows knitted tighter, she replied, reflectively, "Ever since we were small children, you had often said that I was the nonsensical, mischievous girl, whereas Miss Fairfax the perfect picture of a well behaved child. Before Miss Fairfax's removal to the Campbells, there were hardly any changes in our temperaments and your opinions on us, and on all the occasions during her visits to Highbury since her removal, I was still the mischievous one and she the image of a perfect child... Mr. Knightley," looking up at her grown-up friend wistfully, "do you think our two years apart could really bring so much change in us?"

Caught by the truths that he had attempted to overlook, Mr. Knightley was momentarily out of words. Nevertheless, unwilling to give up on his undertaking, he would continue his endeavour through the power of reasons and mind.

"Emma," the gentleman succeeded quickly, "changes could come in many forms – there are changes in a person's likes and dislikes, in her dispositions, or her circumstances that could drastically alter her views in various aspects of life, hence her entire person. But there is a far more profound change that could bring two opposite forces together without any tangible change – the change of the _mind_ – Emma, could oftentimes achieve the impossible, and cause even the unwanted desirable. If only you are willing to change your mind in regard for your friendship with Miss Fairfax, you might be taken by surprise by what a little change could bring."

The young lady might be in want of an uplifted spirit, she was, however, not in want of dissuasions on her long grounded belief.

"But Mr. Knightley," replied Emma, though without her natural liveliness, not without her innate wit, "indeed the power of the mind is indisputable, but in the matter that we are speaking of, there are _two_ minds involved, the change of merely _one_ could do little to help the matter if the _other_ had not the desire to change!"

Unaware of the influence she possessed for simply being herself, Emma had not the slightest notion of the distress that she had stirred in Mr. Knightley of late. Witnessing his dear young friend's disconcerted countenance the last three months had plunged his anxiety for her to new depth. Every visit he made to Hartfield in hopes of seeing signs of improvement on her was met with disappointment; the gentleman had wracked his ways and his brains to lift Emma's spirits, every effort, be it pieces of amusing news he gathered from the papers or the parish, little jokes or teasing he conjured up to stir the sauciness in her, or even small gifts he acquired during his journeys out of town, had all been in vain. Perhaps no longer the same girl of age five, ten, or even twelve, when simply his comforting presence, attentive ears, or his good-natured humour could sooth the child's wrinkled spirit, prying Emma out of her melancholies had become an impossible task!

Frustrations – part with Emma, but largely with himself, for, with all his power and influence, he could not alter the situation – were mounting inside Mr. Knightley, mixed with the equally grounded belief that a genuine friendship could grow between Emma and Jane Fairfax if only Emma would allow it, Mr. Knightley was untaken by Emma's argument; hence, he would not give up.

"Emma," the colour of his face began to rise, "all changes start with a beginning; someone must take the first step. Perhaps if you would take the first step in accepting Miss Fairfax as a friend, she would be inclined to follow your lead."

Mr. Knightley, obviously, had not aimed his suggestion at rousing Emma in an unfavourable direction, but his words had indeed achieved what he did not intend. The colour of Emma's placid face was finally rising, very much like the colour on his.

"Mr. Knightley," looking at him in dismay, Emma retorted, "are you suggesting that I had _never_ taken the first step in befriending Miss Fairfax?"

Mr. Knightley took Emma's response as merely a manifestation of her stubbornness, and he knew how stubborn his young friend could be and how much convincing it often took to steer her to a different direction. "Emma, I am certain that you had taken the first step in befriending Miss Fairfax in the past, but perhaps a step with more determination and sincerity is what is required in this case."

"_So_..." with difficulties, "I was _not_ determined... _not..._ sincere_..._ _enough_?" Emma asked.

"There is always room for improvement, Emma!" was the gentleman's honest opinion.

Something like a sea billow suddenly surged within Emma who had been listless and subdued for more than three months. With sparks of injury flickering in her eyes, she looked up at Mr. Knightley, "Why is it so important to you that Miss Fairfax and I are friends?"

"Emma," not understanding the reason for her injury, and caught up by his bout of frustration, Mr. Knightley replied, with far less patience and tact than he usually possessed, "though you and Miss Fairfax are different in many ways, Miss Fairfax has many superior qualities; an intimacy with her would be a very sensible thing!"

Having once, on the day of the abandoned brewery incident, running out on Mr. Knightley impertinently, Emma had promised herself to never again commit the brazen act. Remembering her resolve, she swallowed her injury, suppressing the tremors in her voice, "But... as you have often called me a nonsensical girl, Mr. Knightley, would not it be _unreasonable_ to expect a nonsensical girl to do the sensible?"

Desperately in keeping the tears that were threatening to break out in her eyes, Emma averted her face, and before Mr. Knightley had the time to reply she said hastily, "I beg your pardon, sir! There is an ache throbbing in my head; I must repair to my chamber and lie down at this instance!" She jerked a stiff curtsy and scurried out of the drawing room.

* * *

As soon as she shut her bedchamber door, Emma sat on her bed and cried! She did not tell a complete falsehood when she said that there was an ache throbbing in her head – but, instead of her head, the ache had been brewing in her heart.

For some inexplicable reasons, Emma had not shed a tear since the day after Agnes's departure. For three months she had tried to forget how much fuller life was before the Andertons removed, and vigorously she had done everything in her power to go back to enjoy the quiet life she lived before her friend's existence. But every walk she took reminded her of the many delightful strolls she and Agnes shared, every pianoforte and singing practice brought back the memories of having a friend who thoroughly admired her deficient talents and appreciated her simply for who she was, and every spring creature climbing out of its winter retreat made her think of the wild giggles breaking out of her and her friend when they felt into the muddy river watching the otter cubs. Before there was Agnes, the mischievous, nonsensical girl had lived fourteen years without a friend of her sex or close to her age and with very little to vex her, she had never thought such friendship could enliven her small world so much that she would miss it once it was gone.

Now that Emma had tasted genuine friendship with someone who, not only of her age and sex, but with temperaments so much in harmony with hers, the small world that seemed perfectly sufficient previously was now unbearably stupid without her friend.

As for the effort to lift her spirit from those near her, Emma, of course, had noticed them, for very little escaped the eyes of the clever lass. But, just as she was unsuccessful in reclaiming the joy of the quiet life she once had, she was powerless in producing a better spirit for those who wished to see it in her.

And the thought of Jane Fairfax had caused Emma to missing Agnes even more. When she was with her friend, the young mistress had always felt completely at ease. Though, before Agnes's genteel parentage was revealed, there was a considerable disparity between their stations, their likes and dislikes, their love for creatures, for animals, their wits, their lively natures, were, in the true sense of the word – equal. To be friends with Agnes was effortless, no laughter, nor giggles, nor teasing, nor amusement were ever forced from the two girls – their friendship was as natural as inhaling air, smiling at the cheery warm sun, humming along a sweetly fragrant rose-petalled road. But it was not the case with Jane! From every view, every plane, every appearance, Jane and Emma did not suit – little Jane was proper, there was never an intimation of mischief in that child, whereas since the day of her birth little Emma was all about mischief; Jane was resolved and devoted in her endeavours, while Emma would never willingly submit to anything requiring patience and industry; it was Jane's nature to be quiet, reserved, preferred to keep her thoughts to herself, whereas Emma was lively, born with an open temper, and naturally inclined to speak her mind.

The words from Mr. Knightley this morning stung Emma worst than any bee sting! Either out of a pure heart or the good intention to satisfy those who wished to see a friendship sprouting from her and Jane Fairfax, Emma had indeed taken the first steps to befriend Jane in the past. Was she not determined? Was she not sincere? Perhaps not determined or sincere _enough _to perform a miracle between her and Jane, she was certainly determined and sincere according to the meaning of the two words in her dictionary. If being friends with Agnes was as natural as the gypsies singing and dancing in front of their bonfire, being friends with Jane must be as unnatural as anyone other than her father eating gruel!

She had always known that Mr. Knightley regarded Jane Fairfax very highly, there were times she had wondered if her grown-up friend indeed preferred the perfectly well behaved child over her the nonsensical girl. The two years without Jane Fairfax in Highbury had faded her wonderment almost completely. But the conversations with Mr. Knightley this morning brought her suspicion back in view. If she was not so deficient in her talents, her accomplishments as compared to Jane Fairfax's, she could have easily dismissed her suspicions, but her indulgent father might be able to fool himself into believing that his daughter was more perfect than any perfect child, Emma could not!

The fact that she had already lost one friend to Longfield had Emma living in a world of melancholies for months, now, knowing that the forming of an unnatural friendship was once again to be expected, and the prospect of losing her grown-up friend Mr. Knightley, her only friend left other than Miss Taylor, to someone who was superior over her had opened the floodgate of Emma's long suppressed tears at last.

As sad tears continued flowing down her cheeks, Miss Taylor, who overheard the exchange between Emma and Mr. Knightley in the drawing room, was outside her chamber tapping gently on the door.

From the sound of the tap, Emma knew it was Miss Taylor, and her sore heart desperately needed a comforting bosom. She answered chokingly, "_Come... in_..."

As soon as Miss Taylor sat down next to her, Emma flung her arms about her governess's waist and wept into her chest.

Swaddling her charge tightly in her arms, Miss Taylor asked with motherly concerns, "Why has your good sense allowed you to be so unhappy, my dearest Emma?"

Unfortunately, even Emma was not certain how she had allowed herself keep falling into the pit. Day after day, she had been meaning to smile, to laugh, to take pleasure of the life that spring so cheerily proffered, not only that she could not help being unhappy, it was as if her heart wished to be miserable and feeling sorry for herself.

Burying her face in Miss Taylor's chest, Emma's muffled voice cried out brokenly, "_But... I... do... wish... to be... happy_!"

"Then why do not you take Mr. Knightley's advice?" asked Miss Taylor, stroking Emma's long curls tenderly.

Sniffling, gulping, rubbing her wet eyes, Emma pulled away from Miss Taylor, looked into her governess's eyes forlornly and supplied, "But Miss Fairfax and I do _not_ suit!"

The governess drew a helpless sigh, "My dearest Emma, I know you have been missing Miss Anderton, but the friendship you two had is... _rare_..." for the love of her charge, Miss Taylor felt that she must be honest with Emma rather than leading her on with a false hope, "friendship like that is not easy to find!"

As Emma had long suspected, the honest truth that Miss Taylor just imparted was least surprising, it only confirmed her suspicion. But her firm belief that she and Jane Fairfax would not suit was too affixed to be shaken. The fourteen-year-old knitted her wilful brows, looking into Miss Taylor's eyes with a sense of rightfulness, she declared, "Then I would rather forgo the hope of a rare friendship than having to settle with an unnatural one for the rest of my life!"

"But, Emma my dear, look how miserable you are?" Miss Taylor asked anxiously, "Do you wish to be miserable for the rest of your life?"

The wilful child's ardent eyes faltered. Emma looked down at her hands contemplating Miss Taylor's words... _Did she wish to be miserable for the rest of her life? She already knew her answer... but Jane Fairfax and she were like two ends of the magnetized needle in a compass, always pointing at opposite directions, nothing could ever make the two ends meet!_

Miss Taylor saw the pensiveness in Emma, she added, "Miss Fairfax has always been a very nice girl, I dare say she must have grown into a very nice young woman just like _you_, Emma."

"But..." the pensive child slowly looked up with beckoning eyes, speaking in a very small voice dejectedly, "Mr. Knightley had said many times that... Miss Fairfax was the perfect child and I... and I... was the... _nonsensical_ girl..."

"I am sure Mr. Knightley had never meant it in an unkind way," the loving governess soothed.

Emma, eyes casting down, only sighed – her youthful pride, indubitably, was injured!

The young lady contemplated some more, in the same dejected voice she added, "Miss Fairfax and I have nothing in common... nothing I ever said seemed to excite her..."

"Emma," tucking the strayed strands of Emma's long curls behind her ears to see her averted face, "you must remember that Miss Fairfax is reserved, more reserved than most girls?" Miss Taylor reminded gently.

Reflectively, "_Hum_, _hum_..." Emma nodded.

"Besides," the governess continued to persuade, "Miss Fairfax is an orphan, Emma, you _do_ wish to be kind to her, do not you?"

Emma quickly looked up at Miss Taylor, her eyes shimmered with conviction, "Of course I wish to be kind to Miss Fairfax; I have _always_ meant to be kind to her!"

"Then, can you think of some ways to show your kindness?" the governess entreated.

"Well..." Emma pondered for a moment before she slowly began, "Miss Bates often says... how Miss Fairfax loves the pianoforte..."

Miss Taylor nodded quickly, aiming to encourage her charge.

"... but she must be far better than I am..." slipping into her despondency again, the fourteen-year-old murmured.

"Emma!" cried Miss Taylor. "Have you forgotten that you were practicing exceedingly hard when Miss Anderton was in Donwell? Do not be so quick in your judgement, my dear – for _you_ had gotten quite excellent at the pianoforte yourself!"

A faint glimpse of a smile crept upon Emma's face. Slowly she resumed her speech, "Perhaps... Miss Fairfax might come and practice with me at Hartfield... we could take turns..." suggested the young mistress thoughtfully.

Now that an ember of hope was smouldering in Miss Taylor's bosom, to nurse it into flickers, she said to Emma, "And as you know, Miss Fairfax loves to read..."

The beloved charge's lovely face lit up a little more, "Do you think... do you think she likes '_Robinson Crusoe'_?" Emma asked her governess unsurely.

Pleased by her charge's inquiry, Miss Taylor's mouth quirked, continued to suppress her smile, she gave Emma a knowing look, "You could _always_ ask..."

Emma straightened her dejected back and looked expectantly into Miss Taylor's eyes, "We could read adventures together just like Agnes and I used to do... do you think Miss Fairfax would like that?"

"Hum, hum..." still stifling her hopeful smiles, Miss Taylor nodded with assurance.

"Do you think Miss Fairfax likes walking as exercise?" The fourteen-year-old was growing animated by the inquiry. "Agnes and I loved strolling on the Hartfield ground and visiting all the Donwell gardens!"

The clever governess seized the moment fuelling her flickers of hope into flames, enthusiastically she said, "Who would not _love_ to take walks in our beautiful Hartfield shrubberies and Mr. Knightley's exquisite gardens, my dear? Particularly now in spring, look at _all_ the brilliantly coloured flowers budding everywhere, it is practically heaven no matter where one turns, I would be the _least_ surprised if Miss Fairfax would appreciate a daily stroll on our Hartfield ground!"

"And we could visit Wobble!" another delightful thought jumped into Emma's mind, "I am sure Wobble would love to have a new friend!"

Lost hopes were flourishing in Emma's heart, her long-dispirited eyes reached out to the beautiful blue sky beyond the window. From her bed the young mistress bounded up to her feet, skipping, leaping all the way to the window, she unlatched the handle flinging the window wide open with vigour, spirit, and recovered joy. No longer sounding like the annoying squawking of a flock of ducks, the chirpings on top of the half-clothed trees once again resembled nature's choir singing melodious praises to its Maker.

Elbows resting on the windowsill, Emma jutted her slender torso outside the window, she shut her eyes, tilited her chin up letting the warmth of the spring sunlight caress her face for a delightful moment, drinking in the sweet breaths of Hawthorn and Violet that tickled her nose. Like a bee booming from one nosegay to the next, the beautiful young mistress spun around, donning a smile that was as lively as the butterflies fluttering about the petals, as brilliant as the sun greeting the fields, and as gay as Lilacs in their full bloom richness (a smile which Miss Taylor had missed till her heart ached for the past three months,) she asked her governess in a tone of gaiety and jubilance, "When is Miss Fairfax coming to Highbury?"

"In a se'nnight, m'dear!"

* * *

_A/N: Greetings! Hope this finds you well. Having been absent from posting for four and half months, it was really difficult to get up enough courage to post again... but here I am... _

_As always, thank you for reading! :-)_


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: Dear slytherinsal had made a comment in her last review regarding Emma and Agnes visiting each other after Agnes was settled. That was a completely reasonable and logical suggestion, had I not been trying to stick with canon that would have been a nice way to continue the friendship between the girls. However, since from the beginning of this story I've determined to stay close to canon, I thought I should make my assumption known to you excellent readers – With Mr. Woodhouse being the way he was, I've had this notion in my head since the first time I read JA's Emma that it was impossible for his daughters to travel away from him for any journey. The old father could not even reconcile to his son in law carrying his eldest daughter Isabella to merely sixteen miles away to London; I have to assume that his delicate spirit would never allow his youngest daughter Emma to travel the same or an even longer distance to visit her friend, and being the loving daughter that Emma was, she would never distress her father by insisting on such journey. And as for Agnes, since she was still to live a peasant's life, travelling afar would have been a luxury that she could hardly afford. Because of these reasons, Emma and Agnes, at this point in their lives, really had no chance to see each other. Hope my assumptions makes sense to you... and here's the new chapter..._

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

* * *

Time passed pleasanter when one's spirit was gay. A se'nnight had brought Jane Fairfax to Highbury as promised. The anticipation of Highbury's favourite niece was not only bustling in the humble abode of the Bates, but also the elegant mansion of the Woodhouses. A dinner party shall be given in the honour of Miss Bates' dearly beloved niece at Hartfield. Invitations, handwritten handsomely by the young Hartfield Mistress's own delicate hands, were sent days before the expected arrival of Jane Fairfax. The party was to be an intimate affair, comprising of Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, Miss Taylor, Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mrs. Goddard, Mr. Knightley, and the guest of honour Miss Fairfax, a party of eight, no more, no less, which suited perfectly the fragile nerves of Mr. Woodhouse.

* * *

The day of the Hartfield dinner party had finally arrived; Emma had been up since dawn broke, hard at work with Miss Taylor and all her servants in preparing for the party with excitement. Though not unlike other dinner parties given at Hartfield where every design, every detail – from the courses on the dinner menu, the plan for placing of guests at the dinner-table, the writing of the names of the guests on small cards to be placed at that part of the table where it was desired the guest should sit, to the superintending of the placing of the many vases of flowers, the inspecting of the dusting, burnishing, and blacking of the leather, the furniture, and the banisters – was dutifully attended by the young Hartfield Mistress herself, Emma had put in extraordinary care to see to the preparations for this particular occasion to perfection.

At last, when all preparations were completed, two hours before the guests were to arrive, Emma sat down at the writing desk in the drawing room, where her father was dozing off for a brief before-dinner nap, seemingly engrossed in something of great import.

Miss Taylor noticed that Emma was buried behind a heap of books, writing studiously on a piece of paper, she could not help coming near her charge to ask, "Should not these books be put away before the guests arrive, my dear Emma?"

"Er... y-es... Miss... Tay-lor..." with her eyes running down a stack of books, Emma's attention was presently too fixed to the task to look up as she answered, "ah...as... soon as... I finish... my list... I shall put them... away..."

"_List_?" Miss Taylor was bewildered. "Have you not finished the list of guests, where they would sit long ago?"

"This... is... not... the same... list..." Emma replied absently, snapping one book close placing it on the stack to her left, searched for another from the stack to her right. Suddenly, her serious face broke into a smile, "Ah, there it is!" The fourteen-year-old wrote on the piece of paper, then repeating the same process of snapping the book close, placing it aside, looking for another one and writing something on her paper again.

Miss Taylor became exceedingly curious, she asked, "Then... what list is this Emma?"

Emma had just finished writing the last entry on the list; looking immensely pleased, she looked up at Miss Taylor with a glowing smile.

"This is the list of books that I thought Miss Fairfax and I could read together!" the fourteen-year-old supplied with excitement.

"Had not you drawn up a list of books to read with Miss Anderton several months ago, Emma? Why the need for a new list?" asked the governess.

"But Miss Taylor, the list I had with Agnes would not suit Miss Fairfax's taste! Agnes and I shared a great love for adventures, the books on that list consisted of mostly tales of pirates, travels, and adventures of all sorts, I doubt that Miss Fairfax would take as much pleasure in reading those books as we did, that old list would not do!"

The ink on the paper had dried, Emma lifted it up to show Miss Taylor, "See what you think of this..." handing the list to her governess, she added animatedly, "As Miss Fairfax is the granddaughter of the former vicar, I thought she might appreciate the works of Isaac Watts, the books on the top of the list are all his work. And Miss Bates has often said that Miss Fairfax loves poetry, I thought perhaps John Milton's poetries might suit her taste. See," running her slim white finger down the list, Emma pointed out, "the next set of books on the list was authored by Milton.

"Besides," the animated youth suddenly looked sheepish, "I have yet to read the '_Paradise Lost'_ that Mr. Knightley gave me long time ago... this would be the perfect opportunity for me to start reading it, do not you think, Miss Taylor?"

"Oh, Emma..." touched by Emma's meticulous thoughtfulness, Miss Taylor was near speechlessness.

"And the next set of books," Emma's animation returned, "is books of history that Mr. Knightley gave me on my birthdays and other occasions that I have not read. If Miss Fairfax appreciates poetry and literature, she _must_ appreciate history of the world as well! Would not they make the perfect addition to our list, Miss Taylor?" the fourteen-year-old asked her governess with great expectations.

"Of course, my dearest Emma!" Miss Taylor, overcame by Emma's sincere intention, was gleaming with pride and joy.

"But," Miss Taylor had just noticed something, "what about the adventures that you love so much, Emma? If you and Miss Fairfax were to read together, you ought to read something that you like as well!"

"Of course, Miss Taylor!" Emma beamed, "You see," her finger pointing at the bottom of the page, "_'Robinson Crusoe'_ is the last book on the list, _of course_ we shall read my favourite as well!"

* * *

"Mrs. Goddard, Mrs. Bates, Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax," the Hartfield carriage had brought their dinner guests to Hartfield, one of the footmen came into the drawing room and announced.

"Oh! Good evening, Mr. Woodhouse, Miss Woodhouse!" Emerging immediately from behind the footman, Miss Bates curtsied and began her speech excitedly without a moment delay. "This is so kind of you to invite us; we have been looking forward to tonight since the invitation arrived! – Oh, Mr. Woodhouse, it works, it really works – Why, the Bagazet's Oriental Depilatory works! – Oh dear! Good evening Miss Taylor, I beg your pardon, how could I not see you when I came in! – What lovely flowers you have, Miss Woodhouse, so many candles in here, it is just heavenly, you see, I have always thought that heaven must be bright and cheery! – Oh, I would have brought Jane to see you before tonight, but on the day she arrived she was fatigued by the long journey, then the next few days she had caught cold – Yes, it was so very kind of you, Miss Woodhouse, the beef tea and arrowroot you sent helped so much, Jane has been better since! – Would you believe it Mr. Woodhouse, the hair above my upper lip is gone? _GONE_! The depilatory is _magical_! – Beg your pardon, Mr. Woodhouse, what did you say? – Oh, yes, Mother tried it, just as you recommended," the good vicarage daughter gave her mother a loving glance, "the hair sticking out of her ear is gone – And, so is yours, Mr. Woodhouse! – What was it Mother? – Yes, Mother says she is going to use it on her other ear – Goodness me, I ought to stop talking! What did you say again, Mr. Woodhouse? – _Whitehead's Essence of Mustard Pills_ for rheumatisms, oh, how generous of you, my dear Mr. Woodhouse! Of course, Mother would love to try some as well!"

Standing behind her aunt, Jane Fairfax had been casting her eyes at her hands quietly. Miss Bates paused to take a breath, "Oh, Miss Woodhouse," speaking again, "you have not seen Jane for more than two years, I dare say you will not believe your eyes! When Mother and I saw her after so long, we almost could not recognize the child! She was this tiny little girl the last time she was come back, look how much, how pretty she had grown! Is not she a beauty?" The proud aunt was practically bursting with exhilaration, and the furious blushes on her niece had gone unnoticed by her. Moving a step aside, gently taking the young woman by the elbow, Miss Bates led Jane Fairfax several steps forward placing her in front of the Hartfield hosts.

Jane Fairfax's two years absence from Highbury had indeed brought great changes in her. It was like seeing Jane Fairfax for the first time. Had not she ever noticed Jane Fairfax's eyes, her hair before? Emma was not certain, but the image in front was startling to her – Jane Fairfax's dark hair cascading smoothly on her shoulders looked almost identical to the way Agnes wore her hair, and the deep grey eyes presently shimmering under the chandelier shared the same shade as the pair that Agnes possessed. Though the features on the young woman were more regular, and Jane was taller than Agnes, Emma was struck by how much Jane Fairfax reminded her of her lost friend!

Jane Fairfax's resemblance to Agnes was surely a welcomed surprise, thus the seed of desire to make a new friend that was already sprouting in Emma had now grown to full bloom. Emma moved a step closer to her guest, with great warmth and anticipation she curtsied and said, "How do you do Miss Fairfax? Welcome to Hartfield, I am so pleased that you have recovered in time to come this evening!"

"How do you do, Miss Woodhouse?" Jane Fairfax returned the curtsy demurely, "Thank you Miss Woodhouse, it is very kind of you to invite us to Hartfield tonight."

* * *

Half an hour before the commencement of dinner, all guests, except Mr. Knightley, were gathered in the drawing room exchanging pleasantries with one another. Miss Bates, without exception, was never short of Highbury's latest and littlest matters, of which Mr. Woodhouse, who seldom went from his armchair beyond the Hartfield shrubberies, enjoyed listening to no end. While her father, Miss Taylor and their lady-guests had formed a delightful circle with Miss Bates as the principal talker, Emma had invited Jane Fairfax to take seats with her by the window.

Unlike the circle of grown-ups in the middle of the drawing room from where sent chuckles and laughter pervading the room, the little corner by the window occupied by the two young ladies was very quiet – quieter than Emma would like. But as her desire for a new friend glowing brightly in her heart, Emma entreated Jane Fairfax to speak with subjects that she thought would interest the young woman.

"Miss Bates told us so much about the Campbells; they seem a very kind family! You have been with them for several years, how do you like living with the Campbells, Miss Fairfax?"

"Thank you, Miss Woodhouse, the Campbells are indeed very kind and I like living with them very much," replied Jane Fairfax politely.

"I remember the Campbells have a daughter, but cannot remember her age. Is she about your age, Miss Fairfax?"

"Yes, Miss Campbell and I are the same age, Miss Woodhouse."

"It must be lovely to have someone your age to keep you company, you and Miss Campbell must be like sisters! Even though Isabella and I are seven years apart, our age never presents as much as a tiny disparity between us, we love each other to pieces, Isabella and I have always been close! Are you and Miss Campbell close, Miss Fairfax?"

"Yes, Miss Campbell and I are close, Miss Woodhouse," was Jane's answer.

"Miss Bates told us that the Campbells travel very often, you must have travelled to many places by now. Do you have a favourite place, Miss Fairfax?"

"Ireland is my favourite place, Miss Woodhouse."

"Oh, Ireland!" recalling some of the letters Miss Bates had read to her and her father, Emma asked, "That is Mr. Dixons' homeland, is not it?"

Jane Fairfax suddenly swallowed, "Ah... yes..." averting her eyes, her reply was quiet, "Ireland is... where... Mr. Dixion... lives..."

Emma had noticed the colour on Jane Fairfax deepened, she was glad that the topic of Ireland had excited her guest; she thought she would speak more on this subject.

"Mr. Knightley had said that Ireland was a very beautiful country, I would love to see such a beautiful place for myself! What were some of the things that you, the Campbells, and Mr. Dixion did in Ireland, Miss Fairfax?" Emma asked with genuine interest.

"Ah... nothing... nothing extraordinary... just things... things that most people would do, Miss Woodhouse."

Emma was baffled! It was only a moment ago that the subject of Ireland had stirred Jane Fairfax's excitement, yet, now, from her uneasy tone, she could tell that her guest wished to speak no more on the matter!

In spite of her appearance had such a close resemblance to Agnes that it startled Emma at first, Jane Fairfax's temperament was nothing like Emma's old friend's, and Jane's reserved countenance, to the young mistress's regret, was still very much the same as she could remember. Nevertheless, as someone who very much wished to make a new friend, Emma was not about to give up so soon. The fourteen-year-old gathered up her natural alacrity and uncharacteristic resolve and tried again, "Ah, Miss Fairfax, what would you and Miss Campbell like to do to past time?"

"Humph," Jane Fairfax thought for a moment, "things that most young ladies would do, Miss Woodhouse."

"Such _as_..."

"We sing, we draw, we read..."

"Oh," Emma perked up instantly, "do you and Miss Campbell read together?"

"Occasionally..."

"How wonderful!" Emma blurted with exuberance, her hopeful smile brightened her entire person. "I was thinking, Miss Fairfax, that since Miss Bates often tells us how much you like to read, perhaps, if you would like... we could read together?"

"Read _together?_" The suggestion surprised Jane.

Out of her pocket, Emma produced the new book list that she had drawn up. "You see, I have made a list of books earlier today," feeling proud of her handy work, the fourteen-year-old handed the list to her guest with great expectation, "what do you think of this list, Miss Fairfax, do these books interest you?"

Jane received the booklist in her hands, studied it carefully for a moment. "This is a very nice list, Miss Woodhouse," praising her hostess sincerely, "the works of Mr. Watts and Mr. Milton are indeed some of my favourites."

"Then it is perfect!" Joy was overflowing on Emma's face. "We could read these books together, Miss Fairfax! I must admit that adventures are more to my taste, but I have been meaning to read these books for ages, would not it be excellent that we would read them together?"

"But... Miss Woodhouse..." looking reluctant, "I have already read all of the books on the list..." imparted Jane.

Though not the answer that Emma had expected, a little voice in her heart bade her to press on, "But... as they are your favourites... would not you wish to read them again?"

"Er... of course... Miss Woodhouse," Jane's already gentle voice now added timidity, "I would love to read them again; but... as I have only read them recently, I have not the intention to read them again so soon... but... if you would like to read... together... I... I would be... ah... _happy_... to..."

"Do not..." Emma muttered quietly, Jane Fairfax's hesitation was enough to plummet the fair mistress's hope, "Miss Fairfax..." she gently retrieved the book list from her guest, "reading together was only a fanciful notion that came from nowhere... as you have not the intention to revisit these books any time soon, pray do not feel obliged to read with me..."

Emma finished her speech softly, but the uneasy look on Jane Fairfax's face moved the gracious hostess in her looking for a way to sooth her guest's discomfiture. The fourteen-year-old summoned her animation and smiled at Jane. "You know, Mr. Knightley has always said that Distraction is my _greatest_ fault, I am sure even if we _were_ to read together, I would have gotten distracted and left you reading on your own! Come to think of it..." Emma gave Jane a knowing look, "I think it is _best_ that we read on our own, at our own pace, do not you think, Miss Fairfax?"

Jane Fairfax nodded with an awkward smile, and each young lady drew a quiet deep breath; while Jane's eyes sought her hands in her lap, Emma's wandered to the clock on the wall.

To Emma's relief, the footman had just rung the bell; it was time for the dinner guests to move into the dinning-room.

* * *

When the guests began to form their pairs to exit the drawing room, Mr. Woodhouse shifted to speak to his daughter, "Emma my dear, Papa wants to listen to the rest of Miss Bates' story on Mr. Cutts catching the pork belly thief; would not you seat Miss Bates to my right?"

"Papa," Emma lowered her voice to speak to her father, "Miss Fairfax is our guest of honour; the seat on your right is for her. Perhaps Miss Bates could trade seat with Mrs. Bates and be seated on your left?"

"But my left ear is not good, Emma my dear, and Papa wants _you_ on my left. I am feeling a little queasy tonight, it would make me feel better when you are near my dear!" the old father pleaded.

"But Papa," continued in keeping her voice low, the patient daughter explained, "as the hostess of our party, I shall be at the other end of the table..."

"Emma my dear, it would make Papa happy if you and Miss Bates are by my sides!" Mr. Woodhouse bade earnestly again.

"But Papa," feeling caught between a rock and a hard place, the dutiful daughter was growing anxious, "if I were on your left and Miss Bates on your right... where would our guest of honour be?"

"Miss Woodhouse," a gentle voice suddenly came from behind, Emma turned round, it was the voice of Jane Fairfax, who, while standing behind Mr. Woodhouse awaiting his escort to the dinning-room, had caught the exchanges between the father and daughter, the young woman said to her hostess, "My Aunt could take my seat."

"But Miss Fairfax," embarrassed, Emma replied hurriedly, "you are our guest of honour..." but she was promptly, and kindly, cut off.

"My whole life I have been indebted to my Aunt, it is really _she_ who should be the guest of honour. Miss Woodhouse, pray allow my Aunt to take my seat," Jane Fairfax insisted sincerely.

Meeting her father's wishes had always taken precedence above all else in her life, Emma knew she hardly had other choices. "Then..." she said very gratefully, "I am obliged to you, Miss Fairfax – _thank you_!"

The clever fourteen-year-old immediately put her nimble mind to gyration, murmuring to herself as she formed the new seating arrangement in her head, "... _I shall take Mrs. Bates' seat, Miss Taylor shall take mine, Mrs. Bates take__s__ Mrs. Goddard's, Mrs. Goddard __takes__ Miss Taylor's, then Miss Bates shall take Miss Fairfax's, Miss Fairfax__ takes__ Miss Bates'... and Papa and Mr. Knightley __stay_!"

And before her guests entered into the dinning-room, the young mistress had all the small seating cards on the dining table put in their proper places.

* * *

"I beg your pardon for my tardiness!" suddenly came in a gentleman's voice, musculine yet full of warmth and regards.

When everybody was just seated at the dining table, the last dinner guest, Mr. Knightley, had walked into the dinning-room, first taking his bows to his gracious host and hostess, then to the rest of the dinner guests.

The days that brought Jane Fairfax to Highbury had brought Mr. Knightley away from Hartfield. During the fortnight in London for the birth of his second nephew, the Donwell Master had been up to his brows with tasks (and William Larkins) awaiting his return. As spring was the season for calving, lambing, disposing of the remainder of his corn and fat cattle, selling of woods in thinning his plantation, and executing his plans for the fields in the proper times, the gentleman had foregone all visitations to tend his tasks with all his mind and body. However, not for all the treasures in the world would the Donwell Master have missed tonight's dinner party at Hartfield. No doubt, the gentleman would never wish to slight Miss Bates and her beloved niece as the party was given in their honour, but more importantly, the gentleman was excited for a chance to visit with his friends, particularly his young friend – Since that morning when Emma suddenly declared that she had a throbbing headache excusing herself abruptly amidst their conversations, Mr. Knightley had not spoken or seen his young friend. Although he did pay a brief call to Hartfield the morning after to inquire after Emma's health, it was his misfortune that she was taking her exercise in the shrubberies, the Donwell Master could not even afford the time to look for her in the shrubberies before he had to put the visitation to an end.

Several evenings later, when he returned to the Abbey from selling the reminder of his fat cattle to a landowner in a neighbouring village, Mr. Knightley was immensely pleased to have read the invitation from Hartfield. The gentleman reckoned that Emma must have reconsidered her decision on befriending Jane Fairfax, and he rejoiced that her gloomy mood would soon be dispelled. Today, all day long the Donwell Master had been out in the fields with William Larkins superintending his labourers on the seeding of forage crops and the building of a new permanent lambing-shed and a new shepherd's hut. He had barely enough time to return to the Abbey to bathe and change into his evening attire before coming directly to Hartfield.

Emma was overjoyed to see Mr. Knightley walking into the dining room; she had missed her friend over the past many days, and wished to ask him how many calves his cows had calved and how many adorable lambs the ewes had laid thus far, and listen to all his exciting calving and lambing tales. She had purposely arranged tonight's seating so that Mr. Knightley and Miss Taylor, her two favourite people in this world other than her father and sister, to be by her sides, but now that her initial plan had been thrown out the window, she could only sighed and watched, disappointingly, when Mr. Knightley took his seat next to Jane Fairfax's, far away from hers.

As expected, dinner was progressing excellently, though the sight of Serle's rich culinary creations had not helped the queasiness in the old master's stomach, Mr. Woodhouse had turned his cringed eyes away from the lavished meal centring his attention on his dish of thin gruel and the very small egg boiled very soft as well as Miss Bates' amusing stories, and kept his lamentable disgust of indigestive food at bay. To the Hartfield cook's delight, his Spring Julienne Soup, Brill and Lobster sauce with Fried Fillets of Mackerel, Lamb Cutlets and Cucumbers, Roast Fillet of Veal, Asparagus, Ducklings and Gooseberry Tart had won glorious praises from all the dinner guests. Chatters and clatters were abounding at the table, laughter and mirth the greatest compliments to the host and hostess of the event, the dinner was an undeniable success in the eyes of the partakers – except – for Emma!

Though Emma was not suffering from stomach queasiness, the young mistress did not find dinner nearly as pleasurable as her guests. Just this afternoon, when her maid placed the large vase of beautiful flowers in the centre of the dining table, Emma had stood there for minutes admiring the beauty of nature, sighing over the many hues of violet nature could produce. But now, the fourteen-year-old was inwardly cursing the flowers for obscuring her view of Mr. Knightley. All because of the ridiculously large Lilac in the middle of the table, not a nod, a gaze, or even an amusing smile could be exchanged between her and her grown-up friend!

Though her view of her grown-up friend was obscured, the view of her guest of honour was not. While, before dinner, Emma had failed miserably to draw her guest of honour out, enticing her to read with her, Mr. Knightley, sitting next to Jane Fairfax, had been eliciting many delightful conversations from the young woman. Emma could clearly see the prettily heightened colour on Jane Fairfax's face as she listened demurely to Mr. Knightley's speeches. Several times she could even distinguish the voice of the reserved young woman amidst the chattering and clattering drowning the dining room. Despite that the young mistress could not decipher the content of their speeches, reckoned that Mr. Knightley must be accounting the number of fat cattle he had sold from his remainder and the tales of adorable calves and ewes already happened this spring to Jane Fairfax, the fourteen-year-old was growing envious of her guest, wishing that it was _she_ who was sitting next to the Donwell Master!

At last, deserts were served, the young mistress was grateful that dinner was over.

___"This evening has not gone as I thought..." _Emma sighed in her heart, she hoped that the remainder of the night would be better!

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for reading! :-)_


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

* * *

Leisurely, the dinner partakers rose from their seats to leave the dining room. Mr. Woodhouse respectfully led his oldest friend Mrs. Bates and guest of honour Miss Fairfax to the Green Parlour, Mr. Knightley, being the only other gentleman present, graciously offered his arms to Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard, while Miss Taylor and Emma formed a pair following gracefully behind.

Upon reaching the parlour, the Hartfield Master invited his old friend Mrs. Bates to take seats in the armchairs by his dear hearth, Miss Taylor excused herself to see to that tea be brought into the parlour, and Mr. Knightley, Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard formed a small circle in the middle of the room. As soon as Miss Bates was seated comfortably on the plush sofa, the good lady hardly waited for half a second to speak.

"That was the most scrumptious meal I have ever had!" relished the cheerful spinster. "How did you like the Swiss Cream, Mrs. Goddard, was not it the richest cream you have ever tasted? – Oh, you wished a little more sherry in the macaroons? – I thought there was plenty in those delicious treats! Was not the lemon rind in the cream divine? How did you like the Swiss Cream, Mr. Knightley? – Why, you prefer the Tipsy Cake instead! There were so much sherry in the cream and the cake," hiding the mirth behind her hand, the good vicar's daughter blushed, "my feet are feeling a little _tipsy_ as we speak! – Did you know that Mr. Cole had found his gold watch, Mrs. Goddard? – Why, you know that he had placed a notice in the Highbury Gazette, do not you? Did you read the notice, Mr. Knightley? – Of course! Being the magistrate and our landlord you must be aware of things as such! – Oh, you did not, Mrs. Goddard? – Did I neglect to show it to you the day when Mrs. Cole gave me the clipping? I am sorry for it, how could I miss you? – Why yes, the notice particularly instructed the gold watch be returned to Mr. Sheppard, the Bookseller! – Here, here," Miss Bates successfully fished a piece of paper from her reticule, "it is still with me, let me read it to you..."

Mr. Knightley smiled and nodded at the two ladies politely as Miss Bates read from the clipping. He had indeed read the notice in the Gazette when it was printed, and been informed by Mr. Cole himself today on his way to the field that his gold watch had been returned, the news from Miss Bates had done little to capture his attention. In fact, presently, the gentleman's attention was captured by the scene at the bow-windowed alcove.

Ever since Emma was a bouncy little bundle of joy, Mr. Knightley had loved the open temper in the little girl, no other child the young gentleman ever knew had won his affection the way that little Emma did. The countless crotchets that came out of the mischievous child, the effervescent sparkles that shone from her vivacious eyes had been the source of his many open delights and amusements, as well as his constant, albeit unspoken, pride and joy. Nevertheless, reckoned the gentleman, the same nature that gave the precious child her liveliness was the very culprit that cultivated the lack of patience and industry traits in her.

Though Mr. Knightley would never trade the nonsensical girl for the most accomplished female scholar in the world, it was his belief that a little steadiness would be advantageous for the young child as she grew. But to the gentleman's dismay, Mr. Woodhouse was too indulgent of a father to provide any sort of guidance to his daughters. In the doting father's eyes, angels were what both his daughters were made of, not a fault could the father ever find in either of his daughters. Adding to his amazement, Mr. Knightley had seen far too many instances where little Emma charmed her way out of deserving chastisement from Miss Taylor. Though frustrated as he was at the governess's inability to place her charge under submission, who could fault anyone for succumbing to such precious child? Out of no selfish view, Mr. Knightley had taken upon himself and willingly gone beyond the call of duty to provide guidance to his very young friend. As difficult as it was, for even _he_ was not immune to the child's charm, he had given Emma enough lectures and scolding that he feared one day the rascal would simply turn a deaf ear on him. After some careful considerations, the gentleman had come to a conclusion – Rather than relying on the spoiled child's own submission to sensible authority, which had proven to be little use, the surreptitious and powerful influence of a friend must be what Emma needed most.

There were times, before her removal to the Campbells, little Jane Fairfax was thought, by Mr. Knightley, to be the most desirable friend of choice for Emma. The steadiness and devoted nature in the granddaughter of the former vicar were the very virtues that would make a worthy friend of any young girls. But to his disappointment, through their childhood years, a friendship was never formed between the two, and his hope of a worthy friend for Emma grew faint.

Several years had passed, just when he thought that his hope shall remain futile, the most unexpected happened – In the course of a few months, Emma's friendship with Miss Anderton had proved his long-standing belief: When given the right friend, Emma's excellent qualities could be multiplied many folds. Had not Miss Anderton's excellent enticement helped Emma grow the tenacity for a craft that she never had the patience for? Where Miss Taylor's years of bidding had failed, was it not Emma's determination to win her friend's clever challenge that elevated her music skills to new height? And the spoiled child's ability of great kindness and bravery were manifested so beautifully by her desire to help the Anderton family and rescue their children from the escaped French prisoners, even Mr. Anderton, the obstinate father, was moved to regretting his forbiddance of the friendship between his daughter and the rich girl.

To the kind-hearted gentleman, it was not only a disappointment when the Andertons had to leave Donwell, it was downright worrisome to see how low Emma's spirit sank by the way she missed her friend. This was why, to Mr. Knightley, the news of Jane Fairfax coming to Highbury could not have come at a better time. Albeit Emma's initial reaction to the news was the utter opposite of his, her decision to give a dinner party in Jane Fairfax's honour had raised high hopes in him.

Unlike the young mistress whose view of her grown-up friend at dinner was obstructed by the clusters of Lilac on the dining table, Mr. Knightley, with the advantage of his superior height, was able to see Emma clearly over the beautiful centrepiece. Throughout dinner, while engaging Jane Fairfax in conversations, he had kept a keen eye on his young friend, observing her very carefully. Unfortunately, the sights at the dinner table were nothing of what the gentleman had expected. The empty gazes in Emma's eyes, her slouching shoulders, her hands propping up her chin looking decidedly insipid, barely speaking more than a few words the entire time, all of these had worried Mr. Knightley. Did Emma revert back her mind to its original state? Certainly she must understand the value of a female friendship by now, why was she still refusing to make a new friend? Was there no end to her stubborn young mind! And why would Miss Fairfax, her guest of honour, be sitting away from Mr. Woodhouse? Emma obviously had the intention to give the dinner in Jane Fairfax's honour, had not she the intention to honour her guest? Surely, Mr. Knightley reckoned, the guest of honour deserved attention from her hosts, which was why he had made particular effort to engage Jane Fairfax in conversations during dinner, to distract the young woman from feeling slighted by Emma and her father.

Anxiety and frustrations were stewing in Mr. Knightley until he had come into the Green Parlour and saw Emma entreating Jane Fairfax to take seats by the bow-windowed alcove with her – Could this mean that his obstinate friend was finally giving the idea of befriending Jane Fairfax a chance? Before the gentleman would allow his temporary relief grow into contentment, with half his mind given to Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard, he would devote the other half to observing the scene unfolding afar...

* * *

It was a true misfortune that Jane Fairfax had only recently read the books on Emma's list, and the fact that the young woman's reserved nature had not changed with her appearance indeed dampened the desire in Emma to form a friendship with her. Nevertheless, Emma thought that it was very gracious of Jane Fairfax to give up her seat as the guest of honour to satisfy her father's wish. With a heart still warmed to the notion of making a new friend, Emma was keen on giving the notion another try.

"Miss Fairfax, thank you again for letting Miss Bates took your seat at dinner," once they settled in their chairs, Emma spoke sincerely to Jane.

Jane Fairfax returned with a polite smile, "It was nothing, Miss Woodhouse."

"As I was thinking at dinner that I ought to have placed you by my side, even though you could not sit with my father, that way, at least I would have been with you. I had made up the new seating arrangement in so much haste that the idea completely escaped my mind, I hope that you did not feel being neglected by me or by my father tonight!" Emma indeed chided herself for her oversight for most of the dinner.

"Oh no, Miss Woodhouse, I did not feel the slightest neglect. You and Mr. Woodhouse have been all kindness to me," replied Jane.

"Did you enjoy dinner, Miss Fairfax?" inquired the young hostess kindly.

"Very much, Miss Woodhouse," with lips curling up into a pretty crescent, "Mr. Knightley had kept me in pleasant conversations the entire time!" Jane Fairfax supplied with more animation than usual.

Emma was taken aback by the answer. She had meant to ask if Jane Fairfax had enjoyed the Hartfield cook's culinary creations, which had nothing to do with the conversations between the young woman and her grown-up friend. Unfortunately, listening to Jane Fairfax speaking so fondly of Mr. Knightley and watching the delightful smile blossoming on the restrained young woman's face had brought a disquieted feeling in her. Shifting uneasily in her seat, smoothing the invisible crease on her gown, Emma brushed aside that sudden nudge with little effort. Nevertheless, now that the subject of Jane Fairfax's conversations with Mr. Knightley had been brought up, she was eager to hear more about it.

"You seemed having a delightful conversation with Mr. Knightley at dinner. Every year Mr. Knightley tells me the amusing tales at the Donwell home-farm, and I have always loved listening to all his tales. Was Mr. Knightley telling you the number of fat cattle from his remainder that he sold? Or was he speaking of the calves his cows calved and the lambs his ewes laid thus far this spring?" The adorable images of sweet little lambs had brought a bright smile on Emma's face.

"No, Miss Woodhouse," replied Jane Fairfax, "Mr. Knightley and I were discussing the works of Mr. Milton and Mr. Watts."

"_O-h_..." the smile on Emma's face fell, she knitted her brows perplexedly, "I... I did not know that the works of Milton and Watts were so... so... _amusing_..."

"Their works are masterly, Miss Woodhouse! Mr. Knightley and I admire the works of these two great scholars excessively, and many of their works are both our favourites!" Another unrestrained smile of Jane Fairfax was on display.

From the time they exchanged curtsies to when they moved into the dining room, Emma had spent much effort in rousing Jane Fairfax's interest. She had inquired her guest of honour of her life with the Campbells, enticed her to read together with literature that suited her taste perfectly, but the endeavour of the young mistress had only afforded her a smile of no more than common courtesy from Jane Fairfax. The delightful smiles from the reserved young woman whenever Mr. Knightley's name was brought up had taken Emma completely by surprise. And to hear that her esteemed grown-up friend sharing favourites with Jane Fairfax had furrowed Emma's brows, and the disquieted feeling that she brushed off a minute ago arose again.

Although her mind bade her to leave the matter, her heart kept nudging her to find out more. Succumbing to her dismal self-control, Emma reluctantly asked, "And... what... what else... did you... and Mr. Knightley spoke of?"

"We spoke of the many places in Ireland that we have visited in the past." Jane Fairfax's smile seemed even lovelier now.

"You _did_!" astounded Emma.

Was it not but two hours ago that Jane Fairfax had eluded the subject of Ireland? She was decidedly taciturn when Emma asked her about Mr. Dixon's homeland. Then... what had caused this sudden change in her?

It only took a second for the fourteen-year-old to leap into a conclusion of her own – _Because Mr. Knightley had a magical way of drawing, even the most reserved person, out whenever he wished, __particularly those whom he was eager to speak with... Mr. Knightley... must be... eager to speak with Jane Fairfax! _

The unwelcomed thought was twirling in Emma's head, along with the disquieted feeling that seemed to be growing a life of its own.

Now that Emma had unwisely opened her heart to that feeling of unrest, like moths flying straight into flame, without thinking what the next inquiry might do to her psyche, another probing question blurted out of her mouth, "What are the places that you and Mr. Knightley spoke of?"

Jane Fairfax replied without the slightest hesitation, "The Brú na Boinne, the Burren, the Hill of Tara, and Glendalough," her dark eyes kindling with enthusiasm, "these sites all bear historical significance to Ireland and are both Mr. Knightley's and my favourite places as well!"

_Why did she ask! _– Emma chided herself for being such a foolish girl – _Of course they would speak of these places! _These were the same places that Mr. Knightley had described to her in the past, and she had even closed her eyes picturing those magnificent places wondering if she would ever have the chance to be there in person. For her entire life she had not set one foot outside of Highbury, the farthest place she had ever gone was the abandoned brewery on the edge of town. Compared to Jane Fairfax, whose wings had soared over mountains and oceans, Emma's scanty feathers had not even lifted her feet off the ground. Jane Fairfax was well-learnt, well-travelled, well-accomplished – she was _what_... Emma... was _not!_

The suspicion that had faded to the back of her mind for two years was now in Emma's full view. _No wonder_ – her aching heart silently decided – _Mr. Knightley preferred__ Jane Fairfax __over her__!_

Emma looked down at her hands, which had been twisted so badly that blotches of scarlet were all over them, she muttered dismally, "I am... glad... that you and... Mr. Knightley... have... so much... in common!"

A prolonged moment was needed for Emma to quiet that awful rackety feeling inside her. It was a true struggle, but at the end she had succeeded in steering her thoughts to more pleasant things. Naturally, whenever the fourteen-year-old was unhappy, images of her beloved Wobble would surface in her mind quelling the squall within. And a little voice inside the young mistress reminded her of the resolve that she had made before tonight, though that resolve had been reduced to almost nothing by now, Emma was ready to change the subject at any rate, and she decided to raise another question that she had planned on asking Jane Fairfax.

"Miss Fairfax, do you like puppies?" asked Emma, lightened by the thoughts of her precious pup, whose image had never failed to induce a winsome smile on her face.

"_Puppies?" _Jane Fairfax returned, riffling uneasily in her chair.

"Well, Wobble is not exactly a puppy anymore, he shall turn a year old in less than a month, but I promise you that he is _just_ as adorable! Would you like to see him?"

_Who would not wish to see an adorable puppy! _– Emma was certain that Jane Fairfax would say yes.

"No!" the young woman yelped. It was a very distressed, fearful 'No_'_! "I do not want to see puppies or dogs," her finger nails scratching her neck before digging into her forearms. "Furs of animals cause my skin to itch and break into painful hives; I cannot be near any dogs... puppies... or the likes!"

_This was why they did__ not suit!_ – Emma conceded silently, all her excitement vanished and the last vestige of her resolve dissolved, she looked even more crestfallen than before.

* * *

"I cannot believe Jane had grown so much in two years," marvelled Mrs. Goddard. "Such beautiful grey eyes, such lovely hair!"

"Oh, yes," echoed Miss Bates. "She gave Mother and me a start the day she was come back! We could hardly believe our eyes! You know, she was this tiny little girl, one barely noticed her when she was near; a stronger wind could have blown her away. Look how much she has grown! The air and food at the Campbells must be very agreeable with our Jane. _Fifteen_, only _fifteen_ years old, is not she a beauty already?"

"She shall certainly be noticed by everybody now!" Mrs. Goddard exclaimed.

"Look at Jane and Miss Woodhouse, do not they look pretty together?" asked Miss Bates, drenching in contentment.

"Is not Miss Woodhouse the same age as Jane, how old is Miss Woodhouse now?" asked the schoolmistress.

"Why, yes, Miss Woodhouse and Jane are about the same age! But I am certain that Jane is older, for I could recall Fanny was as big as a house when Mrs. Woodhouse was still moving about with grace and ease when they were both with child... but... I cannot recall how far apart the two girls are... Ah, Mr. Knightley," shifting to the gentleman sitting silently next to her, Miss Bates asked, "do you know how old Miss Woodhouse is, is she fifteen? – Mr. Knightley..."

He had meant to give only half his attention to the scene by the bow-windowed alcove, but as it panned out, he was fully distracted by what was unfolding afar. Mr. Knightley had been observing the interactions between Emma and Jane Fairfax all the while when Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard chatted; he was quite perplexed by what he saw. There were instances where Emma had looked quite animated, but for the most part, he noticed that the sparkles in her eyes kept on disappearing, and she was often looking down at her hands. Several times Mr. Knightley saw that the expression on Miss Fairfax very pleasant, she seemed excited by what Emma was telling or asking her, but then how come every time when Jane Fairfax was open to conversation, Emma would lose her interest and looked down for a long time? Was Emma getting bored with Jane Fairfax? Why would not Emma give a new friend a chance? How he wished he could hear the discourse between the two of them!

But when he suddenly heard his name, his puzzled reverie was interrupted, instantly, Mr. Knightley retracted his attention, clearing his throat, "_Ahem_... pardon me, you were asking..." his eyes first moved to Miss Bates and then Mrs. Goddard, unsure of which one of the two ladies had called his name.

"Oh, you were also looking at Jane, were not you, Mr. Knightley?" asked Mrs. Goddard. "Are you as surprised as we are by how she has grown into such a beautiful young woman?"

The gentleman did not answer; he only gave a polite smile.

If truth be told, as soon as he took seat next to Jane Fairfax at the dining table, he had noticed the significant changes in appearance in the young woman since two years before. But the beauty that struck Mrs. Goddard so much did not have the same effect on Mr. Knightley. As the gentleman used to think that Jane Fairfax had a great resemblance to her mother when she was a child, and from his excellent memory, he could still remember what Mrs. Fairfax had looked like before she was stricken, hence, now that the child had grown into a young woman with an air and face much like her mother's had come as little surprise to him.

"Mr. Knightley," Miss Bates interjected, "are not Miss Woodhouse and Jane about the same age? Jane had turned fifteen not long ago, is Miss Woodhouse about to turn fifteen?"

"Emma shall turn fifteen in three weeks," Mr. Knightley answered effortlessly.

"Oh, I knew it!" excited Miss Bates. "I knew that Jane and Miss Woodhouse were only a few months apart. Look at how pretty the two of them look when they are together, do not you think they make very pretty friends, Mr. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley smiled wryly – If only Emma and Jane Fairfax were indeed friends, the gentleman could answer Miss Bates with a genuine smile.

"They really are the prettiest girls in Highbury!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard. "Oh, did you notice Jane's eyes? They seemed getting greyer as she gets older."

"You know, Jane takes after her mother's eyes!" sighed Miss Bates, "Mother and I always see Fanny whenever we looked into Jane's eyes."

"I believe Mr. Bates had the same grey eyes, Miss Bates," with accuracy, Mr. Knightley recollected from his childhood memory.

"Oh!" Miss Bates gasped in sudden awakening. "You are right, Mr. Knightley! Father indeed had the same grey eyes! Mother used to say that Fanny's eyes were not as grey as Father's when she was younger. But as she grew, her eyes grew darker... you are right, Mr. Knightley, how could I miss noticing this before! Fanny certainly took her grey eyes after Father's, which means Jane's eyes are as dark as her Grandfather's eyes. What a lovely sentiment! Mother and I shall see both Father and Fanny when we look at Jane!" Miss Bates pulled out her handkerchief dabbing it lightly on her lashes. "Pardon me, Mrs. Goddard, what did you say? – Miss Woodhouse took after her father's eyes? – Oh, no, Mr. Woodhouse's eyes are brown, not the same colour as Miss Woodhouse's... Come to think of it, Miss Woodhouse has her mother's eyes... Mrs. Woodhouse had the same hazel colour in her eyes. I had always thought Mrs. Woodhouse's eyes beautiful. Are not Miss Woodhouse's eyes beautiful?"

"But I _do_ prefer Jane's grey eyes," said Mrs. Goddard. "Look at her eyes... so deep, so dark... so mysterious... when one looks at Jane's eyes, it is like reading a book written in a tongue that one cannot understand!"

Mr. Knightley found Mrs. Goddard's description of Jane Fairfax's eyes intriguing, and he shifted to look at the young woman's eyes one more time. Indeed they were all that the schoolmistress had described – deep, dark, and mysterious. But just as he had always preferred the open temper in his young friend, he also preferred the brilliant eyes of Emma – The true hazel colour in Emma's eyes often reminded him of the rich earth that sustained lives, woods that gave birth to vibrant fire, Emma's eyes could coruscate sparkles that illuminated like precious pearls under the sun or beneath the moonshine, and there was nothing mysterious about Emma's hazel eyes, they spoke of openness, they spoke of liveliness, they spoke of her thoughts, her feelings, the mischief twirling in her head, the compassion suffusing her heart, and the joy that could spread like wildfire. Unfortunately, presently, Emma's eyes spoke none of the traits aforesaid. Instead, they seemed to be speaking disappointment, dejection, perhaps boredom (he was not certain,) and a multitude of feelings that he found hard to discern... the gentleman had a distinct feeling that his hope for a friendship between Emma and Jane Fairfax was like the flickering candles reflecting from Emma's hazel jewels – dim and fast fading!

* * *

_Why were they looking at them__? _– When Emma looked up from her hands, she caught the eyes of those from the small circle in the middle of the parlour. Then, one stolen glance at Mr. Knightley, who had a pondering look about his face, the poor fourteen-year-old was thrust into panic – _He must be wondering why Miss Fairfax looked__ so bored__!_

Emma stole another glance at Mr. Knightley, and she almost could not breathe!

_He was looking at her now! _– Emma's eyes had caught Mr. Knightley's, and her rackety heart clamoured within – _And he was frowning... why was he frowning... was he... was he thinking that... that... she was neglecting Miss Fairfax? Come... Emma... say something to Jane Fairfax... anything..._

Summoning as much calmness as she could manage, Emma swallowed the frenzy swelling inside, she said, "Miss Fairfax... do you... er... do you like walking as exercise?" She was glad to have remembered another question that she had planned on asking Jane Fairfax.

"Yes, I do, Miss Woodhouse."

"Then," through the corner of her eyes she saw that those at the circle were no longer watching them and Mr. Knightley had turned to speak to Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard, Emma drew a silent breath of relief, finishing her speech with much more composure and ease, "would you like to exercise in our Hartfield shrubberies? It is a very pleasant walk, the length of our shrubberies is neither too long nor too short; there are plenty of benches to take small rests, and the shrubberies have ample shades perfect for ladies who do not wish their delicate complexion ruined or freckled by the sun!"

"It is very kind of you, Miss Woodhouse, but I have been accompanying my Aunt wherever she goes. I can assure you that I receive plenty of exercise by walking with my Aunt throughout the day."

_At __least she looked grateful for her __offer!_– was the comforting thought that Emma said to herself. At any rate, she understood how Miss Bates busied herself visiting everybody all day long, and she knew how the good lady liked to take her niece and her mother with her.

But, wonderments soon entered into Emma's mind – _Did__ Jane Fairfax ever grow tired of Miss Bates' prattling? It must be tiresome to listen to her aunt's __silly __chatters __all day long! And even when she was __not making calls with Miss Bates, she would be trapped in the Bate__s' small apartment... poor girl!_

As Emma was one who never comprehended how anyone could endure Miss Bates' endless babbles, suddenly, a sense of chivalry pervaded her bosom. Albeit her desire for a new friend had completely vanished, out of no selfish view, the fourteen-year-old sought and found a scheme in her head to save a fellow young lady from drowning in the _Sea of Abysmal Blathers_.

"Miss Fairfax," Emma began with knightly courage, "Miss Bates has told us how much you love the pianoforte; you must miss it during these weeks in Highbury. You are welcomed to come to Hartfield whenever you wish to practice on our pianoforte."

"Thank you, Miss Woodhouse, but I do not wish to trouble you," replied Jane Fairfax in her usual courteous manner.

Jane Fairfax's answer did not surprise Emma. Reckoned that the reserved young woman was being polite, Emma was sure that a little encouragement was all Jane Fairfax needed.

"It is no trouble at all, Miss Fairfax! Our Hartfield instrument is at your service, I would be delighted to share it with you whenever you come; we could take turns practicing and keep each other company."

Jane shook her head with a strained smile, "It is very kind of you Miss Woodhouse; I do not wish to impose on you," speaking with more and more conviction, "a few weeks without practicing shall not cause me any harm, I assure you!"

_Was there no end to her restrains?_ – Emma had to wonder. The young mistress could not understand, she was sure that Jane Fairfax would take her offer. _More encouragement must be necessary! _– Emma felt even more determined to carry on her act of kindness now.

"Surely, Miss Fairfax, pray believe me when I say it is no trouble at all! I understand that your superior musical skill shall not suffer from a few weeks without practice, but the same cannot be said about your _spirit_, which shall suffer too much without the instrument that you love so dearly even only for a short time...

"Besides," leaning closer into Jane Fairfax, Emma lowered her voice to avoid the ear shot of those around, "an hour or two at Hartfield a day shall give you a chance to get away from your aunt..." but before she could finish, the shocking glare from Jane Fairfax startled the fourteen-year-old.

Seeing the need to make her intention plain as day, Emma quickly finished her speech, "Surely, as you are in the company of Miss Bates all day long, you must find her endless prattling tiresome! Do not you think that coming to Hartfield for practice shall give you a chance to get away from your aunt, a chance to breathe, even if it was for an hour or two?"

Jane Fairfax, looking veritably indignant, instantly sprang to her feet, her chair rasping the oaken floor had caused Mr. Woodhouse to cringe and all the eyes in the parlour turning to stare at the two young ladies.

With her chin lifted up high, but without a sound, Jane Fairfax lowered herself onto the chair in dignified fashion, and the eyes that had turned to look at the young ladies finally returned to their previous posts. Sitting as straight as a wooden pole, the usually reserved young woman spoke unreservedly to her hostess.

"I thank you for your concern, Miss Woodhouse, but I am _not_ in need of getting away from my Aunt! The only thing that I am in need of is more time with my Aunt and my Grandmother. My situation requires me to be removed from those I love dearly, as I am only in Highbury for a few weeks, I fully intend on spending all my waking hours with the two people that are most important to me!"

Emma was thoroughly embarrassed by the fervent reaction that her offer had provoked in Jane Fairfax. She had thought that her suggestion was as genuine as it was kind in an effort to save a fellow young lady from Miss Bates' blathers which she had found tiresome all her life. But perhaps, being Miss Bates' dearly beloved niece, Emma now reckoned, Jane Fairfax must not feel the way she did!

If there were a hole near her, Emma would have crawled into it and dared not coming out until everybody had left Hartfield. But there was no such hole! And to complete her mortification, she saw the frown on Mr. Knightley's face when Jane Fairfax stood up.

_He looked displeased! _– Emma's sunken heart cried – _He must think that she upset Jane Fairfax intentionally... Mr. Knightley must not be pleased with her!_

After the fiasco, not a word was passed between Emma and Jane Fairfax. Feeling smaller than an infinitesimal creature, Emma sat quietly on her seat, staring at her fingers which had been twiddled to blotchy white and blue; she did not look up again for the duration until Miss Taylor announced that it was time for entertainment for their guests.

* * *

_A/N: I know... poor Emma... _

_Some people think that Emma was a snob for not being kind to Jane Fairfax in the book, but they are puzzled by her love for Miss Taylor her governess, her willingness to befriend Harriet the parlour boarder, or be so kind and understanding to the poor at the parish. I have always believed that Emma and Jane were too different to be friends, they really did not suit, at least not when they were girls, and I have my imagination to prove it for my peace of mind..._

_Thank you so much for reading! :-)_


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

* * *

As with most dinner parties where young ladies were expected to provide entertainment to the rest of the guests, the Hartfield dinner party was no exception. At the request of Mrs. Goddard, Jane Fairfax read from the books of _'Paradise Lost'__, _proclaiming the sovereignty of the Omnipotent, the stirring of the Serpent, depicting the disobedience of mankind, and thereupon the loss of Paradise where man was placed.

Emma was relieved that the request was made to Jane Fairfax instead of her. Regaling adventurous stories with animation and drama had always been one of the lively lass's favourite pastimes, even her father, who had not a speckle of adventurous spirit, enjoyed her whimsical antics with many a joggle in his skinny belly; but Emma could never take pleasure of reading solemn tales from a book she did not like, let alone one that she had not read. Besides, tonight's party had been nothing but an onerous and disheartening trial, she would rather be the floral embroideries on the drapery blending seamlessly with the wallpaper than putting her inadequacy on display.

Everyone had gathered round the reader, but Emma had silently tucked herself in a lonely corner, quietly listening to the reading. She was struck by how Jane Fairfax read with profound feeling and understanding – unlike her reserved deportment, Jane Fairfax's reading was expressive, effortless, natural, and imaginative. Though Emma had never read the book that Mr. Knightley gave her, from the contented expression on his face, she could tell that Jane Fairfax's interpretation had captured this particular audience and transported him into the world as the poet had intended. Standing frigidly in her secluded corner, Emma kept her eyes steadfastly on the enthralled Mr. Knightley, witnessing the way his dark eyes shone and squinted, how his mouth quirked, the way he shook his head with lamentation or nodded with approbation, as if through the verses in the poem and the voice of the reader the gentleman was swept away to an entirely different time, a different expanse, and a different place – a place where Emma felt that she was too insignificant, too unaccomplished, too inapt to ever be able to reach.

Much like how the audiences were lost in the world of the poet, the fourteen-year-old was lost in her own disparaging world, and only upon the thunder-like applauses roaring in the parlour when Jane Fairfax finished had Emma suddenly awakened from her exhaustive state.

"That was _beautiful_! Utterly _beautiful_!" Mopping her eyes with her handkerchief, praises were gushing from Mrs. Goddard.

While the sound of applauses and praises were still reverberating in the room, as Emma had feared, Miss Taylor was coming towards where she stood.

"My dear Emma, would you favour us with a performance at the pianoforte?" the governess entreated her charge with the warmest and proudest smile.

Without a word Emma shook her head in panicking motion, the despondent look on her face was completely uncharacteristic of her.

Startled by Emma's reservation, Miss Taylor asked with concerns, "Are you unwell, Emma?"

"I..." Emma hesitated, "I... am not... unwell..."

Miss Taylor drew a sigh of relief, "Then, my dearest Emma, would you do us the honour and grace us with a performance at the pianoforte?" the governess entreated again.

Looking anxiously into Miss Taylor's eyes, "I think... I think... Miss Taylor...would not it be _lovely_ if Miss Fairfax would grace us with her excellent performance instead? After all, we know how Miss Fairfax loves the pianoforte!" suggested the fourteen-year-old.

"But Emma my dear, Miss Fairfax had just finished reading for us..." explained Miss Taylor.

"But Miss Fairfax is our guest of honour, Miss Taylor!" the reluctant mistress returned quickly, "We must honour her by letting her perform for us!"

"Emma, but Miss Fairfax might be fatigued..." pleaded the governess, but was very soon cut off.

"Oh no! A little reading could not have fatigued Miss Fairfax!" insisted the young hostess, gesturing the footman to come to her, "Lemonade...yes... let us serve Miss Fairfax a glass of refreshing lemonade and she shall recover straight away, I can assure you, Miss Taylor!" Emma gave order to the footman to bring in the refreshment for her guest of honour.

"But Emma," Miss Taylor was at a loss, "you had practiced so hard in preparation for tonight... would you not do our guests the honour..."

"My practice was nothing, Miss Taylor," Emma declared hurriedly, "we must wait... yes, we must wait for Miss Fairfax... it would only take a minute to bring in the lemonade, and with another minute to rest I am sure Miss Fairfax shall be ready for the pianoforte..."

Mr. Knightley had noticed the commotion in the corner of the room between Miss Taylor and Emma as well as the footman's coming and going. He overheard their exchange when he came near. The gentleman cut in before Emma found another excuse for her governess's request.

"Emma, Miss Fairfax had a long reading, her voice was turning coarse at the end; she needs to rest."

Though Mr. Knightley had said those words in his usual unaffected gentlemanly manner, his words, instantly, were like wine poured over Emma's fresh wound.

_Of course he would be concerned of__ Jane Fairfax being fatigued! _– Emma's heart sank as she surmised that Jane Fairfax's well being was now at the core of Mr. Knightley's heart while her own state of dejection was not even near the periphery of the gentleman's mind.

"Why do not you play first?" suggested Mr. Knightley. "Miss Fairfax could play after her rest."

Emma had looked down at her twisted hands as soon as Mr. Knightley made his suggestion – if her grown-up friend could not even recognize her despondency, she would prefer that he did not see it on her at all!

"Would you come, my dear Emma?" Miss Taylor reached out her hands and beckoned warmly.

At last, the fourteen-year-old nodded, took her governess's hand, and followed her to the pianoforte, sitting down wearily on the bench.

The days leading to the night of the dinner party, Emma had indeed practised exceedingly hard, partly because she knew entertainments from her and Jane Fairfax were to be expected, and partly because she knew Jane Fairfax would be the more superior of them two, her only wish was that her performance would not be too far inferior of Jane Fairfax's. She had prepared several difficult pieces to showcase her industrious practice and improved skills for the evening, but the confidence and verve that pervaded so much in her before tonight had been steadily dwindling to nothingness by now, the great fear of making mistakes (and she knew with the tremors in her fingers she would make mistakes) embarrassing her father and Miss Taylor had Emma resorted to playing only a single simple piece.

Although her performance did not completely betray her very depressed spirit, it lacked the lustre and vibrancy Emma's playing usually comprised; and as simple as the piece was, her trembling fingers had slipped off the keys several times. During her performance, she had looked up, very discreetly, to see the expression of her audience, and those times when her fingers slipped from the black and white keys, she had stolen glances at Mr. Knightley, and the small frowns on his face had caused her to immediately looking down again.

Her recital that lasted no more than several minutes had felt like several hours to the downhearted lass. But at last, it was finished. Amidst the polite applauses, Emma returned to her seat in the dim corner awaiting Jane Fairfax to succeed her at the grand instrument.

If anyone had doubts on the truth regarding Jane Fairfax's musical talents according to her aunt's words, within mere seconds into Jane Fairfax's performance, all doubts had vanished. The young woman's musical skill was extraordinary, and just as her reading had transported her audience to the poet's world, her musical performance had moved all those in the parlour into a world imbued with, at times, passion and boldness, flairs and flame, and, other times, delicacy and subtlety, charm and grace.

Even as she was hidden away in the faint corner of the room, Emma's eyes could not help wandering to the direction of her esteemed friend Mr. Knightley. The gentleman had closed his eyes, but from the movements beneath his eyelids, she could tell that he was entranced by the incomparable musical world of Jane Fairfax. The raising of his brows at the blazing movements on the keyboard, the subtle twitches on his lips when the blaze eased into grace, the gentle swaying of his torso along the melodious streaming of the keys, told Emma that each note that the performer's masterly fingers struck had elevated the gentleman's senses into splendid enchantment. Emma recalled the frowns on Mr. Knightley when her own fingers slipped from the keys, compared them to the gratified expression that was currently on his face... a bleak, achy, hollowed whisper sealed the despondency in her – "_How could I__ ever compare to Jane Fairfax!__"_

* * *

After the musical entertainments ceased, Mr. Woodhouse had requested a game of backgammon, and Emma sat quietly next to her father for the duration of the game.

The long and exhausting evening seemed finally coming to its end. Once the guests gave their sincere gratitude to their hosts, bidding them many pleasant dreams, Emma escorted her father to his bedchamber while Miss Taylor went to see that her master's very thin gruel was fetched to him before he retired.

* * *

Mr. Knightley, being the perfect gentleman that he was, was out in front of the Woodhouses' mansion handing the ladies, one by one, into the Hartfield carriage. As he handed Jane Fairfax into the carriage, he said, "Miss Fairfax, I shall bring the book we spoke of earlier to Mrs. Bates' apartment the morrow."

"I do not wish to trouble you, Mr. Knightley, you must be exceedingly engaged at this time of the year," replied Jane Fairfax politely.

"As Mrs. Bates' apartment is on my way to Kingston, it is no trouble, Miss Fairfax. However, please do pardon me for not coming into the house as I shall take my journey to Kingston directly as soon as I leave the book with your maid."

"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Knightley!" replied Jane Fairfax sincerely.

Then, right when Mr. Knightley was about to shut the carriage door, Miss Bates cried out, "Oh! I have forgotten the _Whitehead's Essence of Mustard Pills_ that Mr. Woodhouse gave me for Mother's rheumatisms!"

"Where did you place it, Miss Bates? I shall go fetch it for you," offered the gentleman.

"It is so very kind of you, Mr. Knightley! But I do not recall where I placed it last... it might be in the drawing room... er... perhaps in the dinning-room..." muttered the good Miss Bates.

"Could it be in the Green Parlour?" interjected Mrs. Goddard.

"Goodness me, I do not know! I had better go look for it myself!" blurted the middle-aged maiden, bustling to descend from the carriage.

"Let me come help you!" The schoolmistress immediately followed behind, leaving Jane Fairfax keeping company of her grandmother, and Mr. Knightley standing by the carriage holding the carriage door.

* * *

Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard first went to the Green Parlour looking for the pills but could not found them there. They then went out to the hallway into the drawing room.

"Oh...what shall I do if I cannot find the pills?" Miss Bates blurted worriedly as she hastened into the drawing room.

Trailing only a step behind, Mrs. Goddard assured, "Do not worry, Miss Bates, I am sure they must be lying somewhere in here." And as soon as Mrs. Goddard was certain that they were alone in the drawing room, the schoolmistress betrayed the thought that she had been holding in her bosom for most of the evening.

"Did you hear how Mr. Knightley praised Jane's reading and musical performance? Was not it so very kind of him?"

"Ah... Mr. Knightley... is... always... kind..." drawled Miss Bates with unusually few words, her mind was presently set on looking for the _Whitehead's Essence of Mustard Pills_.

"But you _ought_ to have noticed that he was particularly kind to Jane, Miss Bates?" added Mrs. Goddard.

"Ah... but... Mr. Knightley... is... kind... to everyone..." replied Miss Bates distractedly, eyes leaping from the mahogany tea table to the rosewood sofa and then to the elegant turned legs chairs by the window.

"But did not you notice that he was looking at Jane's direction the entire time when we were in the Green Parlour?" succeeded Mrs. Goddard immediately, not willing to waste any time.

"Jane... Jane's... direction..." Miss Bates mumbled absently.

The anxious Miss Bates had gone from the middle of the drawing room to the writing desk by the wall, ducking beneath the desk to see if the packet of pills had fallen under the chair or behind the desk. While following Miss Bates to the writing desk, Mrs. Goddard's mind was busied formulating her conjecture.

"You know..." uttering in contemplation, "I have suspected this for years..." the schoolmistress's eyes sparked, her mind was settled, "Upon my word, Jane has always been Mr. Knightley's favourite in all of Highbury!"

Suddenly, Miss Bates halted her search, turning her gaze to the schoolmistress in astonishment. "Oh, _no_, Mrs. Goddard! You are _mistaken_!" Not a trace of the light-heartedness that often suffusing her speech could be detected in her voice, the good lady sounded most serious. "Miss Woodhouse _is_ Mr. Knightley's favourite! She has _always_ been ever since she was a little girl!"

"Of course Mr. Knightley has been kind to Miss Woodhouse since she was a little girl," the schoolmistress said dismissively. "Remember that _poor_ Miss Woodhouse lost her mother at a very young age? And Mr. Woodhouse was so distraught at losing his wife? We all know what a kind-hearted gentleman Mr. Knightley is. How could he have resisted being kind to the family, particularly little Miss Woodhouse! And mind you that the Woodhouses and the Knightleys have been friends for generations, now that the two families are connected by marriage, of _course_ Mr. Knightley would continue to be fond of Miss Woodhouse! But you _must_ admit that Mr. Knightley has always had a particularly favourable opinion on Jane, how he used to say that she was a perfect child? Now that Jane has grown into such a beautiful accomplished young woman, what gentleman would not be impressed by someone as accomplished as Jane!"

Round-eyed Miss Bates stood there gaping at her friend with an open mouth.

"And," Mrs. Goddard was not finished, "did not he offer to take the book to Jane the morrow even when he had meant to go to Kingston? He _must_ fear that Jane would suffer without something to feed her excellent mind! I am convinced that Jane is Mr. Knightley's favourite; there is no doubt in my mind!" Marvelling at her own ingenious perception, the schoolmistress stood there with a self-satisfied smile.

By this time Miss Bates had knitted her brows deeply (and the good lady seldom had reasons to knit her brows!) unwilling to believe Mrs. Goddard's conjecture, and was about to open her energetic mouth to confute her friend, but the loud clanging sound of the clock striking the hour had caused the easily distracted lady to jump. "Oh, we must find the pills!" she yelped, "It is already passed the time for Mother to go to bed; Mother and Jane must be tired waiting for us!"

And no sooner had the two ladies resumed their frantic search than a voice not far away from where they stood began to approach them.

"Are you looking for these, Miss Bates?" looking pale and weary, with a packet of _Whitehead's Essence of Mustard Pills_ in her hand, Emma had walked up to the two ladies and asked.

"Oh, yes!" Miss Bates saw the packet and gulped with joy. "Thank you _so_ much Miss Woodhouse! We have been looking for the packet everywhere! Where did you find it, Miss Woodhouse? Mr. Woodhouse wanted Mother to try them as he thought it might help the pain from Mother's rheumatisms!"

"It was on your chair in the dinning-room, Miss Bates. The servants brought it to me several minutes ago when they were clearing the room," replied Emma, forcing a strained smile. "Father had used these pills for his rheumatisms and they have lessened his pain, it should do the same for Mrs. Bates. And the advertisement said that it would work on sprains and bruises as well."

"Oh, it is so thoughtful of you, Miss Woodhouse! You must know I often trip on the steps of our long staircase, particularly during nightfall when the narrow passage goes dim! I shan't worry if my ankle is bruised or sprained next time!" A thoroughly grateful smile spread across Miss Bates' face.

"Take them as soon as you bruise your ankle, Miss Bates, it shall prevent the part turning black," the subdued fourteen-year-old added quietly.

"You are so kind for reminding me, Miss Woodhouse, I shall remember it with all my heart!"

"We ought to be off, it is very late," interjected Mrs. Goddard.

"Goodness me, I was so grateful for Miss Woodhouse that I had completely forgotten the time! – Mother and Jane are waiting for us outside, and Mr. Knightley too – Oh, you look fatigued, Miss Woodhouse, we ought to be leaving! Thank you so much, Miss Woodhouse, for such a marvellous dinner party and a perfect evening! Mother, Jane and I are grateful for you and Mr. Woodhouse! Please give Mr. Woodhouse our regards, and pray let Serle know that he had outdone himself tonight..."

"Good night, Miss Bates, Mrs. Goddard." The haggard looking young mistress curtsied.

"Good night, Miss Woodhouse!" Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard returned Emma's curtsy and hastened out of the drawing-room.

Standing there silently, watching the shadows of the two ladies disappearing from her sight, Emma drew a long sorrowful sigh – she wished that she had not reached the drawing room threshold when she did, it would have saved her from hearing what Mrs. Goddard had imparted.

She had long suspected that Mr. Knightley preferred Jane Fairfax over her – she might be spoiled, but she was not foolish, after all, how could she not know that the sensible and superior Mr. Knightley would prefer the accomplished and perfect Jane Fairfax over her the nonsensical girl. But the truth seemed so much the harsher when it had come from another person's mouth. And what was more, to hear that Mr. Knightley had been kind to her merely out of pity for a motherless child was too cruel of a truth for her to bear! Even blinking rapidly could not prevent the tears from trickling down her cheeks. Emma reached a hand into her pocket for her handkerchief to wipe her tears, but along with the fine cloth she had pulled out the booklist that she meticulously drew up in the afternoon.

She now remembered that after retrieving the booklist from Jane Fairfax's hand, she had shoved the paper in her pocket with hidden disappointment and completely forgotten of it until now. Staring emptily at the piece of paper with exhaustion, Emma drifted into a blank distant world so deeply that she had failed to notice the familiar footfall nearing the drawing room. And when the voice of the gentleman "Good evening, Emma!" broke her drifting, the booklist was startled out of her slender fingers onto the floor. She quickly dried her tears with her handkerchief and swallowed her tears inside before turning to greet the gentleman.

"Good evening, Mr. Knightley, I thought you have left," she said timidly, without meeting his eyes.

"I have hardly spoken a few words with you the entire night; I thought I would come in to see what you think of the evening," said Mr. Knightley.

_Did it matter what she thought of it? – _was the only thought that came to the young mistress.

Emma shrugged and feigned a smile. "The food was wonderful, of course!" she succeeded quickly, "Serle always does an excellent job. But I must say that the Swiss Cream was a bit too rich and there was too much sherry in the Tipsy Cake, however everyone seemed to like it, I dare say it did not signify! The fish was too salty though, I ought to let Serle know to be less generous with the seasonings next time, and the lamb... yes, the lamb, there was too much sage in the lamb, it was practically overpowering all the other herbs..."

Emma went on and on regarding Serle's creation until Mr. Knightley grew impatient and interrupted her.

"You know what I meant, Emma," said the gentleman.

"Of... of course I know what you meant!" the fourteen-year-old stumbled at first, but recovered quickly and said with aggrandized animation, her hazel eyes scurrying everywhere but Mr. Knightley's dark eyes. "I think it was a very successful evening! Superb! Magnificent! Everyone seemed to have a pleasant time, from the very second they walked into Hartfield until the moment they took leave..."

"Emma!" Mr. Knightley took a deep breath before calling out her name. Trying unsuccessfully to look into her avoidant eyes, he finally asked directly, "What do you think of Miss Fairfax?"

Instantly, the air surrounding her went stale. A sudden bitterness had crept upon Emma's chest. No longer wishing to avoid Mr. Knightley's eyes, determinedly, she lifted her sharp irises willing to meet his eyes with defiance.

"Oh! Miss Fairfax, _of course_!" she chided the tremours in her throat to silence. "Why, is as _superior_ as _ever_!" There was iciness in her voice. "_Just_ as you said her two years away from Highbury had brought _great_ changes in her, _wonderful_ changes if you would ask me! What _beautiful_ grey eyes and dark hair she has! How so _accomplished_ she is! Her reading was out of this _world_, _best_ I had _ever_ heard! And her musical talent was beyond _anything_ I could _ever_ imagine! Most _excellent_ creature! Do not you think, Mr. Knightley?"

Emma's disingenuous response startled Mr. Knightley. He thought something was amiss with his young friend, but he could not help the growing nettle brought forth by her aloofness. All he wanted was for her to make a new friend, to lighten her dispirited countenance, to return to the lively person that he missed so much. Knowing the disparity in their natures he was willing to own that Jane Fairfax might not be the perfect choice of friend for Emma, but the young woman was worthy, worthy of any female's consideration. What kind of game was Emma playing now? The gentleman wondered and was put into a flustered fettle.

"Emma," he said stiffly, "do not you consider Miss Fairfax worthy of your friendship?"

Emma let out a sardonic laugher that Mr. Knightley had never heard from her before, and she said nonchalantly, "But Mr. Knightley, _why_ would I wish to befriend Miss Fairfax when I have everything and everyone that I ever need in my life? I have Papa, I have Miss Taylor, I have _y'_..." she bit her lip bitterly, realizing that her privilege of being Mr. Knightley's friend had ceased. "I have Papa and Miss Taylor; I have _everybody_ that I need!"

"I had thought that you wished to give the friendship with Miss Fairfax a chance... but..." the gentleman had missed his young friend's meaning, he looked confused, "...but if you had no intention of befriending Miss Fairfax... why... why did you give the dinner party tonight?"

"It was my duty, Mr. Knightley!" Emma said ardently. "The Woodhouses is the first in consequence in Highbury, Miss Fairfax is the beloved niece and granddaughter of Miss Bates and Mrs. Bates, the granddaughter of the former vicar; the Bates are my father's oldest friends. She had been away from Highbury for more than two years, it was only right that Hartfield should give a dinner party in her honour. That was the _only_ intention I had, _nothing_ more!"

If there were traces of wetness fast clouding Emma's eyes, Mr. Knightley's nettled mind had prevented him from noticing it. The gentleman could not help but said what he felt in his heart, "Then... I am very disappointed!"

Emma turned away to prevent a clear view of her face from Mr. Knightley, disallowing her bygone friend from seeing the wetness that marred her eyes turning into tears.

Both Emma and Mr. Knightley were too disconcerted to speak, but their agitated silence was saved by Miss Taylor entering into the drawing room.

"Good evening, Mr. Knightley," the governess curtsied and the gentleman returned with a strained bow.

Turning to her charge, "Emma, your father had finished his gruel and wishes to bid you good night before he retires," said Miss Taylor.

"Thank you, Miss Taylor. I shall go directly to Papa!" Emma turned, and, continued averting her face, curtsied stiffly at Mr. Knightley with a subdued bidding, "Good night, Mr. Knightley."

Emma had begun walking away without affording Mr. Knightley his bow, but the gentleman called out in haste, "Emma, I shall be leaving for Kingston tomorrow..." she paused to listen but did not turn round, "I shall not be able to call on Hartfield for a few days..."

_Yet, he shall be able to call on Jane Fairfax w__ith her precious book__! - _Emma cried silently in her heart with resentment, and the pain kept eating at her inside.

"Good journey, Mr. Knightley," she said icily and flew out of the drawing room to her father's chamber.

Mr. Knightley stared at Emma's nonexistence for a long moment; the disappointment within him did not cease to rise.

"You must excuse Emma, Mr. Knightley," Miss Taylor noticed the frown on the gentleman's brows, "she has had a very long day," said she.

Mr. Knightley nodded. "Of course... and you must have the same, Miss Taylor," he said absently.

Miss Taylor returned a polite smile.

"I beg you good night, Miss Taylor." Mr. Knightley bowed politely, turning to make his leave.

But only one long stride, the tip of his right boot had kicked up an object lying on the floor. The fluttering noise of a piece of paper jolted by his boot caught the gentleman's ears – he looked down, instantly, recognized that the handwriting on the paper had belonged to none other than the handsome hands of Emma. Bending to retrieve the paper from the floor, Mr. Knightley grew curious and ran his eyes down the article.

_It was a booklist! – _he reckoned – _Emma had drawn up another booklist... _He read the titles on the list with more care. _But she had never been interested in the works of Isaac Watts and John Milton... why would she put these titles on her list?_

His curiosity piqued him to turn to ask Miss Taylor, who was replacing the pillows in their proper places on the sofa, "Is this Emma's new booklist, Miss Taylor?"

Seeing the paper in Mr. Knightley's hand, "Oh, yes, Emma had drawn this up only this afternoon," supplied the governess.

"But none of these titles, except for the last one on the list, have ever excited Emma's taste," the gentleman looked perplexed, "why would she put them on her list?"

Miss Taylor smiled, "I know, Mr. Knightley, but dear Emma thought that these books would suit Miss Fairfax's taste far better than the ones she read with Miss Anderton. She spent nearly _two_ hours this afternoon drawing up this list. You should have seen how she buried herself in the heap of books!"

"But why would she wish a booklist that would suit Miss Fairfax's taste?" The gentleman was at a loss.

"Why, did Emma not tell you that she had planned to read with Miss Fairfax? Emma was going to entice Miss Fairfax to read with her, to come to Hartfield to practise the pianoforte with her, and to take walks with her... Unfortunately, Miss Fairfax had already read all the books on her list and none of her other plans turned out!" sighed Miss Taylor.

"You mean..." Mr. Knightley looked astonished, "you mean... Emma... wished to befriend Miss Fairfax?" he uttered.

"Oh yes, Mr. Knightley, Emma intentionally planned the dinner party so that she could make better acquaintance with Miss Fairfax. She had been all excited about the dinner party ever since she came up with the idea. For _days_, she had been planning and making sure that every detail would turn out perfectly, that everything shall be pleasing and to Miss Fairfax's liking... Do not you think her booklist is wonderful?"

Mr. Knightley returned his gaze to the list with a heavily pounding heart.

"Emma had put so much thought into the booklist, Mr. Knightley!" the governess added. "She said that since Miss Fairfax was the granddaughter of the former vicar that she must appreciate the works of Mr. Watts, and since Miss Bates had told us how much Miss Fairfax loved poetry which was why Emma entered Mr. Milton's titles on the list next. And then she thought for one such as Miss Fairfax who admired literature and poetry must appreciate the history of the world, and that was why those titles were included in her list."

"And she..." Mr. Knightley's anxious eyes moved to the bottom of the list, he swallowed, "intentionally... put her favourite as the last..."

"Is not Emma such a thoughtful child, Mr. Knightley?" replied Miss Taylor with the proudest of smiles. "She would rather put Miss Fairfax's interest ahead of her own. A governess must not wish for a better charge than my own dearest Emma!"

But unfortunately, the proud smile that brightened Miss Taylor's face had put Mr. Knightley to shame.

_The new booklist had truly done Emma justice, but_ – _he_ – the gentleman regretted – _did not!_

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter, I appreciate every one of them! I am so glad that you saw Emma's effort as well, she really did try her best. This and the last few chapters have been bittersweet to me - it was difficult to see how sad Emma grew over the course of the evening, but at the same time it was gratifying to dig into the vulnerable side of my favourite heroine and found emotions that made her human and so much like us... _

_As always, thank you for reading! :-)_


	39. Chapter 39

_A/N: Thank you so much for your support to our beloved heroine in the last chapter, I truly appreciate every one of you! The worst part of the night was over, but now Emma must face the aftermath..._

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

* * *

Emma had carefully dried her tears before entering into her father's chamber, she even pinched her cheeks several times to lift the paleness off her spent face, but tried as she did, her sadness was still shadowing her person. She watched the maid removing the tray of gruel from the small table by her father's bed and exiting the chamber. Then, she began, mechanically, fluffing the pillows on the bed.

The dim candle on Mr. Woodhouse's bed-stand flickered along with Emma's faint sniffles. The dutiful daughter had placed two pillows behind her father's back, allowing him to sit up comfortably on his bed. Other than the cracklings from the glowing hearth, there was complete silence in the room, but it was a familiar silence, a comfortable silence, a comforting silence.

Just as she had done every night for as long as she could remember, with her delicate slender fingers, Emma tenderly smoothed her father's thin locks behind his ears, under his nightcap. But unlike other nights, when at this point the loving daughter would have been speaking animatedly to her father for another minute or two before bidding him the pleasantest of dreams with the sweetest of smiles and the soundest of kisses on his cheeks – tonight, wordlessly, Emma placed her arms round her father's neck and squeezed him as tightly as she could without distressing his lungs. The equally loving father, without prompting, wrapped his arms about his daughter, returning her embrace with unequalled fatherly affection.

For a very long moment, Emma held still in that position, burying her face in her father's chest, feeling the warmth of his fragile frame and the thuds of his old heart, taking comfort from one who had loved her since she was in her mother's womb.

The old father smoothed his daughter's long locks on her back slowly and gently, listening to her heaving, his own long sighs synchronized with her quiet heaves.

"Why are you sad, my child?" the father asked tenderly, breaking the monotonous rhythm of their breathings.

Emma shook her head, "I am not... sad... Papa..." was her muffled reply.

"You cannot fool Papa, Emma my dear," the old father sighed.

"I... I am not trying to fool you, Papa... " Emma had buried her face even deeper into her father's chest.

"My dear child, you have been sad ever since Miss Anderton left Donwell, have not you?" Mr. Woodhouse asked ever so gently.

Emma pulled herself away to look into her father's eyes, astonished and ashamed. "You _noticed_, Papa?"

The old father gave a rueful nod.

"Papa may not be as clever as you," Mr. Woodhouse's indulgent smile betrayed his _Paste Pearls_ front tooth – his clever daughter had been the pride and joy of the old father, "but Papa could always tell whenever you are sad!" The thought of his precious child sad had hidden his substitute tooth behind his cracked lips again.

"Did I worry you, Papa?" Emma asked guiltily. "I am _very_ sorry if I did!"

Mr. Woodhouse placed a loving hand on Emma's cheek, "Papa always worries when you are sad, but what could Papa do when the Andertons had to remove such a long way away? The poor Andertons must not even be accustomed to living in Donwell before they had to remove!"

"But Papa, the Andertons were returning to their homeland, we must rejoice for them!" Emma urged sensibly.

"But, poor Emma, you do not look like you have been rejoicing at all!" cried the father.

"_Er_..." having been caught, Emma looked sheepishly at her father, "I have been missing the Andertons, particularly Agnes... but I am feeling far better now, Papa!"

"_Poor _Emma, you must not be doing as better as you think, look at how sad you look tonight!"

Emma knew that her father was right, but it was not a falsehood when she said that she was feeling better about the Andertons' removal. After three long months of melancholy, she had regained some of her lively spirit the last two weeks – but – tonight's setback was most unexpected, and the blow that came with it was the hardest one she had to endure. Unwillingly, her mind drifted back to Mrs. Goddard's words and the nettled face she last saw on Mr. Knightley. The fourteen-year-old casted her eyes down feeling her heart sinking again.

Mr. Woodhouse heaved another long sigh as he shook his head. "Friendship could be a sorry business indeed, who would have thought that such an excellent friendship would end like this..."

Emma's heart clamoured; she looked up at her father in astonishment, wondering how he knew what had transpired between her and her grown-up friend Mr. Knightley.

"Papa, how... how did you know... that... I... I... no longer wish to be friends with..."

Mr. Woodhouse did not wait for Emma to finish, "How could I not know, Emma my dear!" he sounded surprised. "How could one wish to be friends with someone who is so far removed? You know that Papa's friendship with Mrs. Bates could not have lasted this long had we not been living in Highbury all our lives?" The old father drew another long sigh, "_Poor _Emma," shook his head again, "_poor Miss Anderton_!"

So, her father did not find out what was on her mind after all, Emma was relieved. Nevertheless, as her father was against changes of all natures, the removal of the Andertons, someone who was not part of his very small social circle, might not have disturbed his inner peace, but the severance of his daughter's friendship with his oldest and closest friend's son, with whom he himself had had a longstanding friendship, ought to distress him greatly, perhaps more greatly than Emma willing to see him bear.

Emma decided to conceal her decision from her father, she plastered a sweet smile on her face, with one hand on her hip, the other waving a playful finger at her dear papa, and said light-heartedly to him, "No more _poor _Emma, Papa!" her sweet voice gave a false-reproof. "I promise you that I shall be _happy_, not sad!"

The old father smiled, his _Paste Pearls_ tooth showcasing freely again. "Papa is happy now! And you know, Emma my dear, though Miss Anderton is removed, you shall always have Mrs. Bates and Miss Bates as your friends!"

"Papa!" the mischievous daughter giggled, lifted a playful eyebrow, "Have you _quite_ forgotten that Mrs. Bates and Miss Bates are _your_ friends?"

"Quite so, quite so!" the doting father chuckled. "Mrs. Bates and Miss Bates are indeed _my_ friends, you are right, my dear." Mr. Woodhouse scratched his thinly-haired head and said with a sheepish grin, "Papa should have said that you shall always have Miss Taylor _and_ Mr. Knightley as your friends!"

Her father's last few words instantly casted Emma out of her light-heartedness; her crest went falling off her face again. The fourteen-year-old returned her face to her father's chest, clinging tightly to his frame.

"Papa..." the child murmured, "what if... what if..." feeling her tongue knotted in her throat, "I... I...shall never..." she did not know how best to put it, "_never..._ be as accomplished... as..." she swallowed, "Miss Fairfax... would you... would you still love me?"

"What made you say such things, Emma my dear?" astounded Mr. Woodhouse. "I do not know anybody who is more accomplished than you, what gives you the notion that you are not as accomplished as Miss Fairfax?"

"Papa..." Emma looked up forlornly at her father, "I know you always think me the most accomplished person you ever know..."

"And that is the truth, my dear!"

"But... what if... what if... what _if_ I was not as accomplished as you think... what if I shall never be accomplished... what if I lacked talents... any talent at _all_, Papa! Would you still love me?"

The old father was horrified.

"Emma my dear, I have never heard you speaking nonsense before! You are most accomplished, most talented, how could you say things that are so far removed from the truth?"

"But Papa..." Emma continued to plead, "I want to know... I _need _to know... Would not you tell me?" Disheartened tears were glistening in the child's eyes. "If I were the least accomplished person in the world_... _would you still love me the way you do, Papa... would you?

Mr. Woodhouse was thoroughly muddled – It was preposterous to think that he, or anyone, could think his daughter unaccomplished, untalented! What could be in that clever head of his dear child?

"Would... you... Papa?" the desperate child implored chokingly; tears were filling to the brims of her eyes.

His precious daughter's tears wrung the old father's heart; Mr. Woodhouse sighed, he relented.

"Come, come, Emma my love!" he lifted his thumb to wipe away her tears that spilled, "Pray, do not cry!" speaking with the deepest fatherly love, "Papa knows you _are_ accomplished and you _are _talented, but if you must make me answer those silly questions of yours... I shall do as you bid – Of course Papa shall _always _love you even...even... if..." the old father cringed as he cleared his throat, "...if... you were the... the..." he found his tongue unwilling to say those dreadful words, "_least_ accomplished... _least_... talented child in the world, Papa shall _always_ love you – _always,_" he accented, "with _all_ my hearts!"

"_Thank__ you_, Papa!" flinging her arms round her father's neck, Emma returned her face to his chest, crying out with immeasurable gratitude, "I love you, Papa! I shall always love you! Thank you _so much_ for loving me!"

* * *

Emma did not, could not, sleep that night, her mind full of unpleasant images, the words of Mrs. Goddard still hung fast in her head, and the thought of Mr. Knightley only befriended her to pity her was aching her all over. Nevertheless, albeit her youthful pride was painfully dismantled, she no longer felt as despondent as before. She was thankful for her father's love, assured by her father's pledge, for no one, nothing, could take away his love for her. To a young daughter who gave the best of her waking hours to her old father, Emma had never felt the slightest regret for tending the nervous and tedious man – for the daughter had received as much as she had given; her papa had loved her unconditionally all her life and taught her to love him in the very same way.

Steely, the fourteen-year-old lied in her bed staring at the ceiling in the dark, waiting for dawn to come, for after the harsh discovery of the night before, there was only one thing left for her to do – as soon as the appropriate hour arrived she must go to Donwell Abbey.

* * *

"Dear Miss Emma, cook had made Gooseberry Trifle for you. She had whipped the cream this morning for she knew how you like your cream firmer, would you like me to serve it here or in the drawing room?"

Emma was in the Donwell Library, kneeling down on the floor cuddling Wobble tenderly and speaking low into his fine-coated ears when Mrs. Hodges came in to ask her cheerily.

She looked up distractedly to reply. "Thank you, Mrs. Hodges, it is very kind of Mrs. Mayson..." she thought for a moment, "perhaps here in the library..." and finishing softly.

"I shall go fetch it at once!" the middle-aged woman bobbed with a big smile and hastened to turn for the library threshold.

But no sooner had the short and stout woman took two steps than she heard her name called.

"Mrs. Hodges..." Emma had spoken quietly, but was loud enough to reach the housekeeper's ears.

Mrs. Hodges turned, noticing the thoughtful look on the young mistress, she replied, "Yes, Miss Emma?"

"Would you... thank Mrs. Mayson for me... for her excellent cookery talents and all the delectable treats she had made for me these last eleven months?" Emma bade, with sober sincerity.

Although Miss Emma was always generous with her praises and gratitude for the Donwell cook's service, the completely lack lustre countenance in her this morning puzzled Mrs. Hodges. But the housekeeper quickly dismissed her puzzlement to reply, "Certainly, Miss Emma!" and she turned, was about to run for the kitchen again.

Unexpectedly, "Mrs. Hodges..." Emma had called again.

Mrs. Hodges swirled round the second time, her puzzlement returned. "Yes... Miss Emma..."

"Would you... thank Mrs. Mayson for Wobble... for making him all the scrumptious puppy meals all this time?" hands stroking her puppy's back slowly, "Wobble wants her to know that he shall always be grateful for her service, as he could not have grown so well without the excellent nourishment from the meals," the young mistress related solemnly.

Mrs. Hodges was at a loss – Why had Miss Emma sounded like she was thanking the Donwell cook for the last time? A crease was formed between the housekeeper's thick brows as she replied, "Of... of course, Miss Emma... as you _and _Wobble wish."

Rather than hastening out of the library, Mrs. Hodges, meaning to turn but not turning, lingered at her present place, waiting, wondering if Miss Emma would say more.

Emma had returned her attention to Wobble, her delicate fingers fumbling the blanket beneath his furry paws. The young mistress looked distracted and deep in thought, and Mrs. Hodges reckoned that it was safe to go fetch the delicious treat.

But the stout woman had only waddled round two steps, "Mrs. Hodges..." she heard her name called the third time – perhaps she should have waited!

"Yes... Miss Emma..." Mrs. Hodges spun and answered immediately.

"Mrs. Hodges..." Emma looked hesitant, and she sounded the same. "Do you... do you think... that Mr. Knightley would mind... that I borrow Wobble's blanket for a few days... only for a few days... until Wobble get used to his new blanket?"

Mrs. Hodges wondered what was on that pretty mind of the beloved young mistress. "Of course," said she, "Mr. Knightley would not mind you borrow Wobble's blanket for a few days, Miss Emma. I dare say you could borrow anything of Mr. Knightley's and he would not mind at all!" the faithful housekeeper could have sworn for the truth of what she just said.

However, her wonderment drove her curiosity. "May I ask, Miss Emma, why would you need Wobble's blanket for a few days? Is Wobble going somewhere with you?"

Emma paused, debating if she should reveal the truth.

"Ah... I am taking Wobble to Hartfield... I have prepared a new blanket for him, but puppies are like humans, you know, Wobble has grown accustomed to Donwell Abbey as he has lived here for so long. His old blanket shall give him something of comfort and help him get used to his new home."

"Oh!" Mrs. Hodges's knitted brows turned upward, she said with great relief, "Has Mr. Woodhouse agreed to let Wobble live in Hartfield?"

"_Y-y-yes_!" Emma stammered with a cringe.

"That is wonderful news!" the kind housekeeper smiled brightly. "But you would still come to the Abbey every day, would not you, Miss Emma? You know how much we here at the Abbey all love seeing you; this ancient mansion always comes alive whenever you are here! And we shall miss Wobble, of course. Will you and Wobble come every day, Miss Emma?"

The beloved young mistress shook her head.

"Pray, Miss Emma, Mr. Knightley shall miss your company dreadfully if you do not come," pleaded Mrs. Hodges.

Emma quelled the pang in her heart, replying softly, "Mr. Knightley shall have new company... I am sure that he shall no longer wish to see us again..."

"_New company_?" Mrs. Hodges was surprised, mumbling as she searched her memory, "Mr. Knightley has not said a word about expecting new company..."

Emma heard the housekeeper's mumbling, and with her head hung low she supplied glumly, "There shall be new company, Mrs. Hodges... I assure you..."

"But, Miss Emma, even if Mr. Knightley were expecting company, why would he no longer wish to see you and Wobble?"

"That is because" Emma looked up with furrowed brows, "his new company does _not_ like puppies!" imparted the young mistress; the small seed of grudge had formed a pout on her crimson lips.

"But I cannot imagine anyone who would not like your sweet Wobble, Miss Emma!"

"That was _exactly_ what I thought, Mrs. Hodges!" Emma replied instantly, encouraged by Mrs. Hodges honest sentiment, her small seed of grudge was beginning to grow.

"As you said, Mrs. Hodges, my Wobble is sweet and gentle; he is the _loveliest_ puppy I have ever seen! But _she _said that the fur on animals would cause her skin to break into painful hives," the fourteen-year-old wrinkled her nose and snorted, "I have _never_ heard such _nonsense _in my life!_"_

"But, why Miss Emma, my dead cousin's skin used to break into blotches of red whenever she touched felines, perhaps this is the same kind?" suggested the housekeeper.

The young mistress folded her arms crossly and pursed her lips to an obstinate line, unwilling to consent to Mrs. Hodge's suggestion.

"And" the good housekeeper continued, "did you say '_she'_? May I ask who this '_she' _is that Mr. Knightley is expecting, Miss Emma?"

Suddenly piqued by the thought of her own resolve, the wilful fourteen-year-old felt dismal again. The growing grudge in her was forgotten; Emma only muttered in return, "As... this... this is Mr. Knightley's private matter... it is best that I say no more on the matter..."

"But will not you come to Donwell Abbey every day, Miss Emma?" the housekeeper turned to her plea once again, "Mr. Hodges and I, Claire, Harry, and everyone at the Abbey shall miss seeing you!"

"I am sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Hodges, but Wobble and I shall not be calling the Abbey from now on... perhaps when Isabella, John and my nephews visit Donwell Abbey in Christmas, Wobble and I shall return to visit them..."

"Oh, we shall have to wait until Christmas to see you, Miss Emma?"

Emma nodded ruefully, leaving the kind housekeeper thoroughly disappointed and concerned.

* * *

While her maid Kate went to gather her mistress's sewing basket, sketchbook, Wobble's blanket, the puppy's favourite toys, the two shawls and several pairs of mittens that her mistress had left at Mr. Knightley's home, Emma had said goodbye to almost everyone at the Abbey. But before she bid farewell to the ancient house in which she and her puppy had spent nearly every afternoon since eleven months ago, there was one last person she wish to speak to...

With two small bundles in her hand, the young mistress treaded up to the old Donwell footman who was sweeping the stone steps in front of the mansion entrance.

"Harry..." Emma spoke from behind the footman.

Old Harry was startled at first, but he then turned and greeted the young mistress with joy, "Good m-morning, Miss Emma... you c-called? I am s-sorry; I did not hear you c-coming!"

Emma smiled sweetly, "You always sweep so hard, Harry, of course you could not notice my coming!" teasing kindly.

The old footman grinned sheepishly, out of a long time habit, his thin lips hard at work in concealing the gap from his missing front tooth, which reminded Emma of her papa's, only that her father could afford a substitute tooth but the humble footman could not.

"When are your grandchildren coming to Donwell?" inquired the young mistress.

"The m-morrow night, Miss Emma!"

"You must be excited to see them! It has been nearly three years since you last saw your daughter and grandsons, has not it?"

With the broom in his hands and a wide smile spreading across his face, Harry nodded.

"And I dare say you shall be over the moon when you see your baby granddaughter for the first time!"

Old Harry nodded excitedly again; in fact, he was so excited that the gap where his missing tooth once occupied peeped gloriously.

"Ann w-wrote in her letter that the t-twins have g-grown into quite some r-rascals, she s-said that we ought to keep our e-eyes on them when they c-came, but l-little Beth was a j-joy! Would y-you like to s-see Beth when s-she comes, Miss Emma?"

Oh, how the sweet lass loved babies! What Emma would not give to see little Beth in person, but she would have to relinquish her chance this time. Emma sighed but said nothing.

A moment later, "I have something for baby Beth and the twins..." the young mistress broke her silence.

Emma took one of the bundles, removed the wrapper around it, revealing a brand new infant cap with fitted brim and puffed crown.

"This is for baby Beth, Harry. Do you think it would suit her?"

"This is b-beautiful, Miss Emma! I am o-only a s-servant... I can n-not accept such p-precious gift from you?"

"Of course, you _must_ accept this for your granddaughter, Harry! I had intended the cap for my newborn nephew, but Little John has taken after his father and is born with a large head. The crown of the cap does not fit him. As neither of your grandsons had a particularly large head when I last saw them, I thought that ought to be the case with your baby granddaughter. You must accept this! You do not wish the cap to go to waste, do you?"

"Thank you s-so much, Miss Emma! I am s-sure this will look e-exquisite on little Beth!" the humble footman received the infant cap gratefully from Emma's hands.

"And," Emma un-swaddled the second bundle, "here are some sweetmeats that Serle made yesterday for our dinner party, I have set aside these for the twins," and revealing many large delectable sugarplums of dates, almonds, spices and honey inside the bundle.

"Oh, Miss Emma! How c-could I take even more f-from you?"

"Surely you will not deny your grandsons some of Serle's best confections, Harry! When Isabella and I were children, we had to smuggle these from the kitchen to our chambers to savour them at night after Papa went to sleep, but now I only wait until Papa takes his nap to eat them," the young mistress giggled.

"All children love sweets, Harry! You must let the twins have these, just be sure to have them rinse their mouths after they eat, or the meat will stick to their teeth till they go rotten," the fourteen-year-old said with a sweet toothily grin, which showed off her perfect set of sparkling teeth.

"It is s-so kind of you, d-dear Miss Emma! When my d-daughter and grand c-children come to Donwell, I s-shall have them thank you in p-person!"

Emma's playful grin was replaced by downcast eyes. "I am afraid I shall not have the good fortune to meet them in person..."

"But w-why, Miss Emma?" Old Harry asked.

"For reasons that I do not wish to reveal, Harry!" the beloved mistress sighed, both shoulders slumped. "After today, you and Donwell Abbey shall not see Wobble and I for a long time..."

"But Miss Emma, _w-why_?" the old footman asked hurriedly, and as he grew more anxious, his stammers became more severe. "Y-you h-have b-been c-coming e-every day, Miss E-Emma, h-how c-come we s-shall n-not b-be s-seeing y-you for a-a l-long t-time?"

"I am sorry, Harry, I do not mean to upset you!"

Harry took a deep breath to calm his nerves, "But... Miss Emma... w-would... would you not t-tell me why we s-shall not s-see you for a l-long time?"

"It is just..." the fourteen-year-old looked reluctant, "it is just... that... that I can no longer be... ah... be... Mr. Knightley's... friend..." stumbling several times before she finished.

Old Harry was taken aback. "Y-you a-are n-no l-longer M-mister K-Knightley's f-friend!" cried the faithful Donwell footman. "H-How c-could i-it b-be?"

Emma had not planned on speaking her reason with anyone, she had successfully evaded Mrs. Hodges's many inquiries, but as she had always had an uncommon respect for all the old servants at Donwell Abbey, and Old Harry, who, just like Mrs. Hodges, had been all kindness and fondness to her since she was a toddler visiting the Knightleys with her mother, but unlike the stout Mrs. Hodges, the old footman had a frail appearance and gentleness that reminded Emma of her father, therefore possessed a particularly soft spot in the sweet lass's heart.

Pensively, and waveringly, Emma murmured, "I... I... do not wish... _pity_... from Mr. Knightley..."

Old Harry could not believe his ears. "B-but... d-dear M-miss m-miss E-Emma... w-why... w-why w-would M-Mister K-Knightley p-pity you?"

Emma looked down at her skirt, sighed deeply, and said, very downheartedly, "He has pitied me... since my mother died..."

As Emma spoke reluctantly, she looked up slowly, and by the horrified look on the old footman's face, she immediately regretted what she imparted.

"I am upsetting you too much, Harry!" cried the fourteen-year-old, "We must speak no more on this matter!"

Suddenly remembering his own humble place, obliging the young mistress's wish, Old Harry nodded sadly, but he could not help wanting to know, "W-when s-shall w-we s-see you a-again, Miss E-Emma?"

"Christmas... I think..." supplied Emma.

"_S-so l-long_!"

Emma nodded ruefully, leaving Old Harry as disappointed and concerned as Mrs. Hodges.

* * *

At last, Emma had said her farewell to everyone at the Abbey (except Mr. Knightley who had left Donwell for Kingston soon after dawn broke that morning,) thanking them for their faithful service to her and her puppy for the past many months. The fourteen-year-old slowly dragged her feet down the stone steps in front of the ancient house, with Wobble bounding and skipping excitedly next to her, and her maid Kate following behind, hands full of hers and her puppy's possessions.

This once favourite guest of Donwell Abbey had sufficiently convinced herself that she was no longer welcomed to the place. From the bottom of the stone steps, she lifted her head to survey the dignified mansion one last time, but the glorious spring sun had made it impossible for her to open her squinting eyes, and the wetness that stung her eyes forced Emma to end her farewell to the ancient house as soon as she started. She turned to her puppy instead.

"Come, Wobble..." struggling to put the lead, which had not been used since a week after she acquired the blind puppy from Agnes, over Wobble's head. "I know you do not like this," indeed, the energetic spaniel had run off twice from her hold already, "but I am doing this for the both of us... I cannot let you run freely at Hartfield because Papa does not know you are mine!"

The golden spaniel squirmed and grumbled, but eventually submitted to his mistress and the lead.

With two fat drops of tear dangling on her long lashes, Emma cuddled her spaniel in her arms, pressing her cheek against his flabby ears. "I am so sorry that you shall have to stay in the stable, Wobble, but Donwell Abbey can no longer be your home! Jane Fairfax loathes puppies and the likes, it would not please Mr. Knightley to have his favourite friend breaking into painful hives... you must remove before you are casted away – for I shall _not_ allow anyone to slight you!" she said vehemently, and then added with obstinate pride, "And I shall _not_ take pity from anybody!"

Emma's fat teardrops had rolled down her cheeks onto Wobble's flat nose. The faithful pup rubbed his warm furry head tenderly against his beloved mistress's wet cheeks, whimpering, as if he could feel her sadness.

Swiping the tears off her face and Wobble's nose, Emma beckoned, "Come, Wobble... let us say good-bye to Donwell Abbey now... we must leave while we still have a shred of dignity left!"

* * *

_A/N: Though Mr. Woodhouse could be quite tedious of an old man, I have always believed that his love for Emma must be genuine and uncommon, and that's why Emma loved him so much that she couldn't even bear to marry Mr. Knightley without her father's consent. I really do think that both the father and daughter drew strength from each other. And I have always thought that Emma must be loved by more than just her own family and Mr. Knightley..._

_Thank you so much for reading, as always! My family will be visiting families for couple weeks, sorry to have to leave this plot at this place for a few weeks, but I sincerely wish all of you a Merry, Merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year! Cheers! :D_


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter Forty**

* * *

"Oh, sir... you were r-riding... in... _t__-t__his_ w-weather!" cried the Donwell footman.

It was an inclement June day; all day long the rain had not stopped pounding. Horrified to see his master drenching in water, Harry received Mr. Knightley hurriedly into the Abbey entrance hall, hastening to take his master's soaked gloves, remove his wet riding cape and dripping beaver hat.

"Thank you, Harry," even in his sodden state the Donwell Master did not neglect to thank his servant sincerely.

"You are h-home e-early, sir," remarked the faithful Harry, busied pouring the water from the brim of his master's hat into a wooden pail.

Mr. Knightley nodded, "I finished my business early so I could return ahead of time..." he paused, seemed heavy in thought, "Something I have in mind I must attend to..."

"Could not it w-wait until the r-rain s-stop, sir?" asked the good-hearted servant.

Mr. Knightley shook his head pensively. But a second later he asked, with urgency, "Is Miss Emma in the library?"

The footman was shaken by the inquiry, he hesitated, "_Ah_..." and shook his head reluctantly.

"Is she in the drawing room then?" another inquiry from the master succeeded immediately.

Old Harry barely shook his head before looking down.

With a dubious frown, "She cannot be in the garden in this tempestuous day!" Mr. Knightley remarked with concern.

"N-no, sir..." dared not looking into his master's eyes, Harry replied hurriedly. And as he continued his stammers worsened, "A-ah... M-miss... M-miss E-Emma... d-did n-not c-come... "

Mr. Knightley sighed – The past three days had been long and taxing to the Donwell Master, but it was not because of his assiduous meetings in Kingston!

Three mornings ago when he embarked on his journey, the gentleman was determined to return as soon as he could. He had made changes to many of his meetings, tending the ones most pressing, truncated the important and essential ones as much as practical, and disposed of those that, though equally important and necessary, could wait. Even then, it had only shortened his stay at Kingston by less than a day. Earlier today, he concluded his last meeting securing a considerable buyer for the Donwell timber this season, and had set off for Donwell immediately. He had been riding through the rain, stopping only to water his horse, meaning to catch Emma still in the Abbey when he arrived. He was surprised to hear that she did not come today, for she had been coming to be with Wobble daily since the puppy took residence at his house. Though his disappointment could not be quelled, the gentleman owned that with such blustery weather, it was better that his young friend stayed in Hartfield, where it was dry and she was in no danger of catching cold.

While Mr. Knightley was doused in his own contemplation, Harry, hands clutching his master's wet beaver hat, had been standing there silently with a pair of stooping shoulders. And when the master was awakened from his reverie, he noticed the sombre look on his old servant.

"Is everything well, Harry?" asked the concerned master.

Harry quickly looked up, "Oh... y-yes, sir... e-everything is... w-well..."

But the footman looked too gloomy to be well. Mr. Knightley asked, "Your daughter and grandchildren have arrived?"

"Yes, sir, they c-came in by l-last night's c-coach."

"Are they all well?"

"T-thank you, sir, they a-are all v-very w-well."

Mr. Knightley could not understand – Old Harry, who was easily pleased and contented, simply did not look himself, particularly during such joyous occasion when his long expected family had come.

"You should be with your family, Harry," Mr. Knightley spoke kindly. "Take several holidays to be with your daughter and grandchildren," and from his pocket the kind master had produced several shinny coins, "these should pay for the subscriptions to the town's fair and as much novelties as your grandchildren shall want."

Harry received Mr. Knightley's generosity very gratefully, "T-thank you, sir!" But his troubled composure remained.

Something was depressing his faithful servant, Mr. Knightley was sure. "What is it, Harry?"

The old servant casted his eyes at his shoes, and was beginning to utter, "I-it...i-it... i-is... a-ah_..."_ when Mrs. Hodges walked into the entrance hall discovering that her master was standing in a puddle and his riding boots dripping with rain water.

"Oh, dear! Mr. Knightley, you are drenched!" cried the housekeeper, breaking the old footman's already broken speech. "I shall order Thomas to prepare a hot bath and Claire the supper for you straight away!"

But no sooner had Mrs. Hodges swivelled round to tend her tasks she heard Mr. Knightley calling out to her.

"The bath and the supper shall need to be brief; I must be off to Hartfield soon!"

What Mr. Knightley said had brought the half-running Mrs. Hodges to a halt. She slowly turned round, muttering, "_Hartfield_... s-sir... are... are... you going to see... ah... Miss... Miss Emma?"

_Since when had his voluble housekeeper started to stammer!_ – The Donwell Master was baffled – _And why did the stout rosy-cheeked Mrs. Hodges turn pale?_

Mr. Knightley watched his two faithful servants standing in front of him with their heads and shoulders slouching so low that he could barely see their faces.

"Yes," to answer Mrs. Hodges's inquiry, "I am going to Hartfield to see Miss Emma," supplied the master.

Old Harry and Mrs. Hodges gasped.

And their gasps had startled Mr. Knightley, he asked, "What is it about Miss Emma?"

With eyes fixed at their shod feet, Old Harry and Mrs. Hodges remained silent.

The master moved closer to the two servants, studying their uncharacteristic bearings with narrowed eyes. "What is it about Miss Emma?" he asked again.

But the two servants only looked paler under his scrutinizing gaze.

Suddenly, something, other than the cringes on Old Harry and Mrs. Hodges, caught the attention of the Donwell Master. He shifted his head to the left, perked his left ear – _nothing_... he then shifted to the right, and perked both his ears – _nothing_!

His brows furrowed, "Why is the Abbey so quiet?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"_Er..._ _er..."_ both Harry and Mrs. Hodges muttered simultaneously.

Instantly, the master's voice stiffened, he was alarmed, "_Where_ is Wobble? _Why_ is there not a sound from him?" for his golden spaniel always greeted him with exuberance as soon as he stepped inside the house.

Old Harry and Mrs. Hodges froze.

"Has _something_" Mr. Knightley's suspicion surged, "happened to Wobble?"

No sooner had he asked the question, the mind of the astute master had leaped to something, or rather someone, with far more importance. His heart hammered as he considered the two grave figures in front, their involuntary gasps, their unwillingness to speak – and – the fact that his young friend did not come to the Abbey to see her spaniel.

"Has something happened to Miss Emma?" asked Mr. Knightley, with agitated urgency.

Old Harry and Mrs. Hodges gulped, stole a quick glance at each other then looked back down.

Mr. Knightley waited impatiently for a moment, but neither the footman nor the housekeeper dared to peep.

With intimidating seriousness, "Why are you _not_ answering?" questioned the master, as a magistrate interrogating his suspects.

But when the irritating silence persisted and the two servants ducked their heads even lower, "I shall ask _again!_" Mr. Knightley decreed firmly, enunciating every word, "Has – _something__ – _happened to Miss Emma?"

Unfortunately, poor Harry and Mrs. Hodges only shrunk further still!

The insisting silence had completely worn off his patience. The master, who seldom lost his temper, glowering at his servants like two convicted criminal _– _erupted!

"I shall repeat _ONCE_ more – _ONE _of you had _BETTER_ tell me! _WHAT HAPPENED _to Miss Emma?" he roared.

The master's eruption shook the two servants and had effectively pried opened one of their mouths.

"M-mister Knight... M-mister Knightley..." the stemmers had come from Mrs. Hodges, "M-miss Emma had not... had not... come the last... two days!"

Mr. Knightley's harsh stare forced Mrs. Hodges to go on.

"She... she had taken... Wobble with her... three... three days ago..."

"Why did _NOT_ you tell me when I _ASKED_?" demanded the master sternly.

"Be-because... because we... we were afraid... it would... it would upset you!" confessed Mrs. Hodges, with Old Harry nodding vigorously next to her.

"I mean... sir..." the housekeeper stumbled, "... nothing... nothing ever upsets you... except when... when something happens to Miss Emma... "

"L-like... t-the t-time... when... s-she f-fell into the p-pond..." Old Harry was quick to proffer the first reminder.

"And the time when... she was stung by Mr. Hodges's bees..." immediately succeeded Mrs. Hodges.

"O-or t-the t-time... the o-oaken d-door... c-caught h-her f-finger..."

"Or the time she scrapped her knees tripping over the wrinkled rug..."

"A-and w-when s-she f-fell o-off L-lady D-Dupree..."

The unremitting reminders from the two servants continued to echo in the Donwell entrance hall, while Mr. Knightley, standing there rigidly, watched them in enormous agitation.

Then suddenly, "_ENOUGH_!" boomed the master, his face was as dark as the turbulent sky outside.

But the thunder of his own voice pounded in his ears and hurt his head! The master was awakened by his obstreperous outburst. Rather than aggravated by two intractable criminals, his fulminating eyes suddenly realized what his intemperate fettle had done to his two faithful servants, who deserved his kindness and respect, not his morose attack.

Shrinking rapidly, Mrs. Hodges staggered, "I... I... am... so... so sorry... Mr. Knightley..."

Half hidden behind the stout Mrs. Hodges, "M-me...m-me... too... s-sir!" shrieked the slight-framed Old Harry.

Shaking his head, feeling ashamed of himself, Mr. Knightley glided his hand over his forehead, rubbed his temples where it hurt several times. He took a long deep breath, "I am sorry, too," and sighed, "I was being unreasonable!"

After another deep breath, in a more level, much calmer voice, he said, "Tell me, did something happen to Miss Emma?"

Finally, Mrs. Hodges stood a little taller, feeling safe enough to speak.

"We do not know, Mr. Knightley!" said she, and Harry nodded quickly to agree. "The last time we saw Miss Emma was the morning you had left for Kingston, she did not look herself that morning, and she had spoken some strange things..."

"V-very s-strange things, sir!" echoed the footman.

Mr. Knightley frowned. "What strange things?"

"Claire had prepared Gooseberry Trifle for Miss Emma, and I asked where she would like to take it, but Miss Emma asked me to thank Claire for her service as if it was the last time she would thank the cook!"

"And s-she t-thanked a-all of u-us as w-well!" interjected Old Harry.

Nodding affirmatively, Mrs. Hodges resumed, "She thanked our service to her and Wobble for the last eleven months, and then she asked if you would mind her borrowing Wobble's blanket for a few days. Of course, I told her that you would not mind. Am I right, Mr. Knightley, that you would let Miss Emma borrow anything of yours?"

Mr. Knightley nodded.

"I was so excited because I thought Mr. Woodhouse must have granted Miss Emma to bring Wobble to Hartfield, although we shall miss Wobble very much..."

"Did Miss Emma tell you that Mr. Woodhouse had approved Wobble to stay in his house?" Mr. Knightley interrupted.

"Miss Emma said yes, but if you would ask me, she did not look as happy as I thought she would be. Then I beckoned her to come to the Abbey with Wobble every day, for we should all miss the joy she and Wobble bring to this house, and I knew you felt the same, Mr. Knightley. I know how much you cherish Miss Emma and Wobble's company, particularly Miss Emma's..."

Though Mr. Knightley did not verbalize it, his answer was obvious to his servants.

"But then" Mrs. Hodges went on, "she said that you were expecting new company... "

"_New company?_" repeated Mr. Knightley, frowning, and perplexed.

"Yes, Mr. Knightley! That was what Miss Emma said. She said that your new company did not like puppies and that she would break into painful hives when she touched animal furs."

"'_She'?" _his frown deepened. "Did Miss Emma tell you who my _new company_ was?" Mr. Knightley asked, even more perplexed than before.

"Oh no, Miss Emma would not say! Would you tell me whom you are expecting, Mr. Knightley? So that I could prepare the Abbey for your guest?" implored the dutiful housekeeper.

"I would like to know _whom_ I am expecting as well!" exasperated the master. "What else did Miss Emma tell you?"

Mrs. Hodges looked reluctant.

"Go on," commanded Mr. Knightley, his arms folded firmly across his broad chest.

"_Er... _Miss Emma said... she said... er... that... with your new company you would... you would not wish to see her and Wobble again..."

Staring at Mrs. Hodges in astonishment, "First of all," Mr. Knightley declared, "I am _not _expecting any company, and why on earth would I not wish to see her and Wobble?"

"That was what I said!" the housekeeper supplied promptly, "But Miss Emma would have none of it, Mr. Knightley!"

"A-and that w-was not a-all!" interjected Old Harry.

"What did Miss Emma tell you?" Mr. Knightley shifted to Harry and asked.

"Miss Emma s-said that s-she could no l-longer be your f-friend, sir!"

"_What?" _snapped Mr. Knightley, loudly, causing Old Harry to wince.

"Miss Emma s-said that s-she..." suddenly feeling worried, the footman paused, averting his eyes from his master's.

"Tell me, Harry!" demanded the master.

"_Er_... _er_..." Old Harry swallowed under Mr. Knightley's penetrating gaze, "s-she... s-she... s-said... t-that... s-she d-did n-not w-want... y-your... p-pity, sir!"

"_Pity?_" cried the master, in complete dismay! "_What..." _the gentleman was near speechless, "... what... kind of notion was _that_?"

"M-miss Emma s-said that you had p-pitied her s-since her m-mother d-died, s-sir!" stammered the honest footman.

As if, by experience, expecting thunders to come after lightning, Old Harry and Mrs. Hodges, in fear of disrespecting their excellent but at-the-present-out-of-character master, with every speckle of their aging selves, resisted the urge to clasp their hands to their ears, were able to manage, wisely, to duck their heads before the thunder of their master struck.

"This is _ABSURD_!" exploded Mr. Knightley, "I have _never_ pitied her for _ONE _second in my life!"

With speed as fast as the lightening that just flashed outside, Mr. Knightley seized his wet riding cape from Old Harry's hand, swung it over his tall frame before snatching his curly-brimmed beaver hat from the other hand of his footman.

"Y-you a-are g-going... into t-the r-rain... s-sir?" stumbled Harry, fearing what his master's action might do to his constitution.

"I am going to Hartfield!" supplied Mr. Knightley, heading for the Abbey entrance.

While Harry hastened to open the door for Mr. Knightley, Mrs. Hodges called out anxiously, "What about bath and supper, sir?"

"Forget those!" exasperated the master; one foot already crossed the threshold.

"Mr. Knightley," cried Mrs. Hodges, running after her master, grabbing the umbrella by the side of the door, "pray, at least take an umbrella!"

Mr. Knightley was already outside the Abbey, but he halted abruptly, took a breath of frustration, and turned around. Grasping the umbrella from Mrs. Hodges's hands, the Donwell Master ran off into the rain without another word.

* * *

_A/N: Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and New Year! __This chapter is a little shorter than usual, but this is a natural place to end it... and yes, Emma and Mr. Knightley will meet in the next chapter. As always, thank you for reading! :-)_


	41. Chapter 41

_**A/N**: Sorry this chapter took so long... I drafted it a while back, but it took forever to edit... here it is..._

**Chapter Forty-One**

* * *

"Pray, eat your supper, Wobble!" Emma pleaded to her puppy the third time.

Shortly after supper, while her father was lost in the advertiser pages next to his fire, and under the pretence of writing to Isabella in her chamber, Emma had sneaked out of the house to bring supper to her puppy at the stable. But either because the spaniel was not accustomed to his new home and the cooking of Serle, or he was missing his master at Donwell Abbey, Wobble had not the same appetite since he left his Abbey home, half of his meal was left untouched every time.

The young mistress, needless to say, was immensely worried over the state of her beloved puppy's health. Though it had only been three days, fancying that her precious pet had already felt lighter in her arms, and her hands feeling his frame more readily than before, she vowed that Wobble's person as well as his lively spirit had taken toll.

"Pray, my darling, eat your supper," pleading desperately again, "I must return to the house before Papa finishes reading his advertisements, or he would be horrified to discover that I had been out in this rain," Emma rubbed Wobble's head gently as she spoke tenderly to him, "I promise you that we would play ball as soon as it is dry outside, but you must eat or you would be too weak to play!"

At the delicate touch of his beloved mistress, the fur ball looked up with his unseeing eyes, rubbed his flat black nose against her soft cheeks affectionately before taking two nonchalant sniffs at his meal. As if wishing to please his mistress but could not bring his heart to do it, Wobble dug his tongue into the dish perfunctorily for several meagre bites, looked up again at his mistress to show her the crumbs daubed on his mouth as proof of fulfilling his duty.

And when he heard the sweet voice of his mistress praising, "Good boy!" the pup, losing no time, plummeted down into his doting mistress's lap.

"But you know that it was not enough!" Emma chastened half-heartedly, "You _must_ finish the entire supper, Wobble!"

The clever spaniel cocked his right brow languidly, twitched his left furry ear once, gave a little careless whine to his mistress as if saying, _"That would do for now!" _

Emma sighed, conceding another battle of the will lost to her puppy. While her hands stroking Wobble's fine coat absently, her eyes sought the sky outside the stable window, wondering how long the rain would go on, when she and Wobble could go out and play ball to improve Wobble's spirit. But, ere long, her mind began wandering off... _to about a mile away... to the ancient Abbey of Donwell... where its master was due to return the next day... soon... her mind drifting back to the rain... wishing it would let-up for Mr. Knightley's journey home... how dreadful, not to say dangerous, it would be for him to ride in this rain... would he put off his return until the harsh weather receded... what if he insisted on journeying through the heavy rain... what if the thunder frightened General... what if General threw him off his saddle... _

"He _must_ delay his return!" the young mistress suddenly cried aloud, rousing the bored Wobble to crank his neck looking up at her.

"I am sorry!" Emma quickly apologized to Wobble, patting his head to assure him that all was well.

And as soon as the warm furry resettled into his cosy bed (his mistress's lap), more troubling thoughts were concocting in the young lady's head, and, naturally, Wobble had become her devoted audience.

"I dare say he would _not_ put off his return!" Emma grumbled, "_Why_?" speaking to Wobble but scowling at the image in her head, where the equestrian knight dodging torrents of rain and thunders to carry his sacred mission for the Arctic Princess. "Because" the young Hartfield Mistress crinkled her nose, "he needs to feed _her_ excellent mind!"

A very unpleasant pout had formed on the young lady's rosebud lips.

Evidently, the image had irritated Emma no end, but regrettably, even with all her might, she could not cast it out of her youthful mind. And as the imaginary image dwelled longer in her head, the smile on the knight (the same indulgent smile that Mr. Knightley had on his face when he listened to Jane Fairfax's music at the Hartfield dinner party) grew more vivid, and the smirk on the insufferable princess only added to Emma's agitation.

Then, right at the moment when the sodden knight, in Emma's head, fell on one knee unhanding an offensive object, which bore a great resemblance to a book, to the frosty princess, a loud sound came crashing from the stable entrance, the door flung open, and a violent wind swept across the entire space, from the doorway to where the young mistress and her pup sat.

The half asleep Wobble immediately awoke, springing to his paws from his mistress's lap. Expeditiously, the cunning spaniel slipped, like a bar of wet soap, away from his mistress's fine fingers, charging excitedly at the opened door. And when his boisterous barking began to draw his mistress out of her daydream, the silhouette of the equestrian knight from her imagination standing at the stable threshold caused Emma to leap up and gasp.

Only one dazed look at the dark shadow, the fair mistress, apparently still in her abstraction, blurted out with passion, "Why is feeding _HER _mind so important to you?"

If Mr. Knightley had not known his young friend all _her_ life, seen and heard her myriad of whims and mischief seemingly all _his _life, the ridiculousness of Emma's current question would have been sufficient for the magistrate to declare the young lady fit for Bedlam. The last few days while he was away from Donwell, frustrations and puzzlements were his constant companion. He had come, urgently, to find out the reasons for Emma's strange deportment, not only those that Old Harry and Mrs. Hodges had accounted to him today, but the ones that he experienced firsthand on the night at the Hartfield dinner party. Although the gentleman had ran off from his estate with bubbling lava threatening to gush from his crater, the mile wet walk had put out much of the steam burning inside. Nevertheless, to be greeted with such odd inquiry, his cooling lava, again, was smouldering within.

"Feed whose mind, Emma?" Mr. Knightley asked as he strode towards his young friend, "And with what?"

In two blinks, the dark shadow of the knight had emerged clearly, revealing the tall, handsome, and dripping, Mr. Knightley, clutching an unopened umbrella in his hand, standing arm's-length in front of her. But another gasp spurted soundly out of Emma – this time her previous agitation was temporarily thrown away.

"You are _wet_!" cried the young lady, shocked by the gentleman's soaked state. "You rode back in _this_ rain?" she stared at him incredulously. "This is _madness_! Did not you know how dangerous it was to ride in this weather? You would never have let John ride in such rain! You could have been thrown off from General, did not you know?

"You shall catch your death in these wet clothes!" declared the young mistress ardently, a little out-of breath, "You know how you dislike the scent of mustard, Mrs. Hodges shall order mustard bathes for you for an entire week!"

_This nonsensical girl was scolding him; at least her impertinence was intact! – _Mr. Knightley was slightly, only slightly, relieved. But now, more than ever, he wished to find out what had gotten into his young friend's pretty head that caused her peculiar demeanours.

Wishing for an answer, in a firmer voice, Mr. Knightley repeated, "Feed whose mind, Emma?"

The icy image of the insufferable princess reappeared in Emma's head, stiffening her instantly, and reminding her of her resolve. The young lady no longer felt it her right to chastise the gentleman for his foolishness, she immediately averted her face from Mr. Knightley's view.

"Emma..." Mr. Knightley prompted keenly, but Emma would not answer, she turned away from him.

Slipping his hand under his wet riding cape, and from his frockcoat pocket Mr. Knightley pulled out the piece of paper that he had been keeping with him since the night it was discovered.

Carefully unfolding the paper, holding it out for Emma, he asked, "Does it have anything to do with this?"

Standing stalk still where she was, through the corners of her eyes, Emma saw her most recent booklist in Mr. Knightley's hand. She was surprised by it, but her mind was in too much frenzy to conjecture how her list had fallen into his hands. Fearing that the astute gentleman would soon find out the falsehood she told him several nights ago, she looked away entirely, determined to keep her lips sealed.

Tucking the piece of paper back in his pocket, Mr. Knightley kept his gaze steadfastly on his young friend.

"Emma," judging from the quivers in her eyes that he caught the moment she turned away he knew that he was on the right path, "why did not you tell me that you had wished to make better acquaintance of Miss Fairfax?"

With her back to him, but without a sound, Emma fidgeted uneasily, and Mr. Knightley carried on, "The other night when I spoke to you after the dinner party why did you tell me that you had no intention to befriend Miss Fairfax?"

Still refusing to answer, Emma moved further away from Mr. Knightley, but he would follow wherever she would go.

"Miss Taylor said that you spent nearly _two_ hours making up this list, why did not you tell me the truth?" Mr. Knightley's pleading was firm and resolute.

But when Emma insisted her silence, he came in front of her. Unfortunately, the young lady quickly walked away from him again, only this time, she had unwisely walked near the end of the stable. As there was little room for her to move further, the stubborn youth decided to fix her eyes at the ground, solemnly pledged to her muteness.

In two long strides, Mr. Knightley was, again, in front of her.

"Emma," the gentleman was as insistence as the young lady, "why did you tell Mrs. Hodges that I was expecting new company?"

Even without looking up, Emma could feel Mr. Knightley's unwavering gaze fixed upon her. She knew that he was willing her to look up at him, but she would not, could not, and she would be vigilant with her concealment.

"Emma," his young friend's obstinacy was a trial to Mr. Knightley's patience, "does it have _anything_ to do with Miss Fairfax?"

It was the third time he said Jane Fairfax's name since he came, which was three times too many for the young mistress to endure! Emma looked up sharply from the ground, into Mr. Knightley's eyes, and groaned before turning round to scowl at the stable wall.

By Emma's agitation, her insistent silence, he knew whatever that was on her mind must have something to do with Jane Fairfax. If only she would tell him what it was he would not have to suffer from this vexing solitary conversation. Mr. Knightley moved another step closer to Emma, so close that he could hear her shallow breathing, but his headstrong friend would rather be cornered against the stable wall than peeped a sound at him!

For three months since the Andertons' removal, the gentleman had been worrying for Emma's lack of spirit to distraction. The reappearance of Jane Fairfax in Highbury not only did not bring upon the relief that he was anxious for, but the entire situation had been exacerbated into a catastrophe. He had been ashamed for accusing Emma for her unwillingness to make a new friend, for not knowing her earnest effort to make better acquaintance of Jane Fairfax. But why did not she tell him the truth? The night after the dinner party during their brief conversation, had she not acted so cold and distant, he would have been able to detect her intention, but she was decidedly aloof and disinterested, to the point of haughtiness, as if she wished to have nothing to do with Jane Fairfax – nothing to do with him!

He had known Emma all her life, and she was practically an opened book to him. He had watched over her since she was a little girl, guided her openly or influenced her covertly, in spite of whether it was agreeable to her since about the same time. Yet, there was nothing he could do about her listless spirit these three months past! The perpetual feeling of helplessness had driven this most sensible man to the peak of frustration, and her sudden uncharacteristic enigma that he encountered after the dinner party had added a formidable perplexity to it. The confusion, the frustration, the powerlessness that he had endured had finally formed tight knots in his stomach (and the lack of a warm meal since the morning did not help the matter either), mixed with the fact that he was wet, cold, and there were throbs in his temples, even a saint could be driven mad!

"Tell me, Emma," Mr. Knightley's waned patience was diminishing – fast, "why did you say all those strange things to Mrs. Hodges and Harry?"

Unfortunately, the harder he pressed, the closer the unyielding Emma would cling to the stable wall.

"_Why_ did you tell Harry that you were no longer my friend?" The colour on his face was now rivalling a burbling volcano. "_Why_ did you take Wobble away when your father did not approve to let him in the house?"

The gentleman's surging vexation was on the verge of bursting, and the young lady was doing nothing to help!

"_Why_ did you thank my Donwell staffs as if you would _never_ see them again?" His questions succeeded without as little as a pause. "_Why_ did you tell Mrs. Hodges that I was expecting new company? And _why_ would I not wish to see you and Wobble?"

Mr. Knightley's questions were like the torrential rain hammering at Emma. Midway through his speech, the obstinate youth had squeezed her eyes shut, pressed both hands firmly against her ears, and pinched her lips so tight that even a spadesman and his tool could not pry it open.

By now, Mr. Knightley had reached the point where his patience had worn off, his frustration, hunger, and headache had taken over. In a thoroughly nettled voice, the Donwell Master bellowed one more interrogation, "_Tell_ me Emma – _What_ had gotten into your _NONSENSICAL_ head?"

But little did the gentleman know that the moment he issued his last inquest and drew his vexatious breath he would be thrown into despair by the scene unfolding before his eyes...

For several very, very long moments, there was only an abysmal silence – even the rapturous Wobble had ceased his incessant barking as if sensing his adored mistress swallowing her sob.

Then, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Emma turned from the stable wall to Mr. Knightley, in the same agonizing pace, the young mistress lowered her hands from her ears, clasping them tremblingly to her sides, while, breathing with sorrowing exertion, she opened her eyes, unveiling sparks of deep indignation, and hurt, looking at Mr. Knightley with brimful of tears that blinded her hazel irises.

There _it_ was – that _word_, that dreadful _word_ which she had heard many a time from him before, but now wished to never hear again – that_ word_ held the very power that pried open Emma's mouth at last!

"_Why_... " her tearful voice was nearly inaudible, "...must you... must you... remind me of... _t_-_that..." a_nd she hiccoughed a doleful little sob.

Instantly, Mr. Knightley's vexation dissolved; his volcano dormant, his red face discoloured, and his voice went considerably softer, "Remind you of... _what_... Emma?"

It might be impossible to believe that even the sensible Mr. Knightley could, albeit amid great agitation, speak of something that he was unaware of its effect. But the gentleman was truly at a loss, he wished he knew what he had said that had suddenly turned his unbending young friend into a weeping willow.

Pearly tears were trickling down her cheeks; intermittent sobs kept breaking up Emma's speeches. While searching for her handkerchief fervently, Emma managed to choke out the same few words, "_Why_...must you... must you... remind me of..._that..." _

Her maddening pocket would not yield, the wilting willow could not find the slit on her gown that opened to her pocket; Emma flung her hands off her frock in frustration, gave up on her search as well as her broken speech.

_What had happened to him today!_ – Mr. Knightley's heart chided himself severely. It was a mere hour ago that the gentleman had felt ashamed of being unreasonable to his servants, but – now – he felt ten times guiltier for making Emma cry. And what was more, he had not an inkling of what he said that caused her puddle of tears!

Where Emma gave up, Mr. Knightley had prevailed. While Emma was frantically searching for her handkerchief to no avail, Mr. Knightley had begun his own search with like frenzy – for even _he_ seemed to have forgotten where his pockets were! Fortunately, he succeeded in retrieving his handkerchief and began dabbing the tears on Emma's face.

"What... what did I say that made you so... _sad_, Emma?" the gentleman asked with humility.

Emma had removed the fine linen from Mr. Knightley's hand and was mopping her eyes furiously with it. Only after what seemed an eternity to the gentleman that she began to speak.

"Why..." she sniffled, "must you..." and sniffled some more, "must you remind me that... I am... _non... non... nonsensical_?" Her tears were mostly gone, which had made clear the deep injury in her eyes.

Though, for the first time today, Mr. Knightley had received an answer from Emma, he was just as muddled as before.

"But..." indeed, he was more muddled than before, "I have called you nonsensical more times than I could count..."

"That was _it_!" Emma snapped, stamped a foot, and frowned. "You have called me _that _more times than _I _could count!" The hurt in her eyes was now replaced with annoyance.

"But it had never bothered you before!" confessed Mr. Knightley wholeheartedly.

If the young lady were not so determined to be chagrin, she would have found the dumbfounded look on the gentleman's face comical and burst into giggles. But instead, Emma returned rashly, "It sure _did_!" only to regret it straight away.

She knew what she said was not true, not entirely, and her good nature piqued her conscience, which in turn compelled her to mend what she said. "I mean..." she looked down, feeling slightly ashamed of her rashness, "it started bothering me... recently... very recently..."

Mr. Knightley swallowed a repressed sigh – compunctious of the fact that his innocent word had wounded his young friend.

Looking down at Emma, whose eyes were fixed at her twisted hands, Mr. Knightley, mind racing through the scant conversations they had had of late, soon surmised the beginning of Emma's recent change.

"Since" his voice went even gentler, "the news of Miss Fairfax coming to Highbury?" asked he.

Emma did not look up; Mr. Knightley waited patiently for a long moment, until he saw her shoulders drooped in defeat and her head gave a small nod.

"And what I said had... _injured_ you?" implored the gentleman, remorse seething in his breast.

Rather than looking up at Mr. Knightley, Emma's head had dipped even lower. She swallowed and gave him another downcast nod.

"Would you tell me, Emma," he knew it would not be easy on her, but he needed to know, "why my calling you _non..." _he checked himself, "I mean... why what I called you never bothered you before until recently?"

The long lapse of silence had returned, after wringing her fingers for a long time, Emma looked up a little, fixing her gaze at the buttons of his riding cape in disquieted muteness, as if a thousand troubling thoughts were preventing her to speak.

Nevertheless, the young lady's insistent silence was no longer a trial to his patience. The instant he saw Emma's glistening tears Mr. Knightley had reclaimed all his patience; rather than allowing Frustration be the better of him, Sense and Sensitivity shall be his guide. The gentleman was prepared for his young friend's hesitation, and now, he would wait as long as it would take.

After more prolonged silence, his patience was rewarded, for Emma, albeit unsurely, began to utter.

"When I was a little girl... you had… you had often said that... Miss Fairfax was the… perfect child..." her voice was small and diffident, "and I... and I... the..." she felt the rest of her words clinging to her throat, "the ..._nonsensical_ girl..."

She paused, thoughtfully, and he waited, patiently.

"I suppose it did bother me..." still fixing her eyes on the buttons of his riding cape, "only that I never gave it much thought..."

"But something happened..." prompted Mr. Knightley.

Even after a long delay, Emma would not go on; Mr. Knightley could tell that she was struggling to reveal a matter of great significance.

"What happened, Emma?" he implored again, very softly and sincerely.

At last, Emma stopped twisting her fingers, and with much reluctance, she gave into Mr. Knightley's entreaty.

"That night... at the dinner party..." her gaze had removed from his buttons, it was now fixed at the ground, a far distant ground, beneath where they stood, "I saw the truth... of what you said..." her voice was as distant as her gaze, "What an accomplished, perfect young lady Miss Fairfax was..." he could hear her swallowing, and he knew it was her youthful pride, "and I..." she sighed, "...was just... a _nonsensical_ girl!" Emma looked up briefly at Mr. Knightley, and the hurt in her eyes thrust Mr. Knightley into deep regret.

"Emma," Mr. Knightley heaved a self-loathing breath, "I am sorry for what I said!"

Emma gave him a rueful smile. "But you only speak the truth, Mr. Knightley!"

"Not when it comes to you being _non_..." he cursed himself for nearly committing the dreadful crime, "being... what I said, Emma!"

Emma shook her head, too unwilling to listen to the gentleman's confession, and too settled to believe that she was right. "There is no need to tell me differently, Mr. Knightley. You have said that I was a nonsensical girl for as long as I could remember..."

Mr. Knightley interjected immediately, "But I never meant it in that way, Emma! And I certainly never meant to compare you to Miss Fairfax or anyone for that matter!"

Unfortunately, his words had no effect on the stubborn youth.

"You are meaning to make me feel better, Mr. Knightley," her tone had now changed from wistful to certain, "even _I _know what I am! I am all that is fanciful and mischievous; comparing to Miss Fairfax who is accomplished in every way, I am only a nonsensical girl." Emma finally raised her eyes to look at Mr. Knightley with defeat, "You have always been right. Others might not dare to speak the truth to me, but _you_ – you would never deliberately say anything that you do not mean!"

"But this is too far from the truth, Emma!" Mr. Knightley appealed urgently.

In a dejected but not an unsteady voice, Emma added, "I know you have pitied me for being a motherless child for years. And I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Knightley, for taking me as your friend ever since..."

Mr. Knightley was astounded. Indignation was clearly written on his face. He refused to let Emma go on with this ridiculousness. "But this is utterly _untrue_!"

Emma drew a long sigh; for three long days she had bitterly resented the notion of Mr. Knightley being her friend only out of pity. After all, how could she believe that the source of the gentleman's guidance, his kindness, and his friendship bestowed upon her was rooted solely in sympathy! Even had he befriended her, the nonsensical girl, out of pity, there ought to be a vestige of genuine affection he had for her, and that she had merited, by chance or by endeavour, such affection. The fact that he continued to wish to conceal his true intention even after she had found him out was enough proof to Emma that she had not been a complete unworthy friend to him.

The young lady laid a sincere hand on the gentleman's forearm, "I am very grateful for your kindness through all these years, Mr. Knightley," looking innocently into his eyes, "but I am quite grown up now, quite capable of caring for myself, I assure you, you must not go on worrying about me! Besides, Papa and Miss Taylor shall always be with me. I think it is time..." Emma looked away as her voice took a doleful turn, "it is time... that... that... I stop imposing on you..." gulping down the ache that was rushing from her heart to her throat, "you could stop... being my friend now..."

It was a moment of epoch for Emma – for, at last, she was ready to let her dear friend go, willingly, unselfishly, without looking back at the laughter and joy they had shared together for years past, or dreading the loneliness that shall be rooted from without the faithful friendship from such remarkable gentleman.

Unfortunately, the gentleman did not look as if he appreciated her selfless act, not even in the slightest! The dismayed expression on Mr. Knightley's red face was most surprising to Emma. She was taken aback by him demanding, "Have you listened to a _word_ I said, Emma?"

"Of course I have heard _every_ word you said!" cried she. "What a queer question you asked! For years you have told me that I was nonsensical, but I heeded not what you said. And now that I am willing to admit that I _am_ what you said, you insist that I am _not_ listening!"

The sense of pride that came from her willingness to free her friend from her long-hold had dissipated. Feeling unappreciated and his demand unjust, an irritating feeling was arising in Emma. The young mistress knitted her brows, wishing to know what Mr. Knightley was about.

Under any other circumstance, listening to his young friend avowing that she was nonsensical would have caused Mr. Knightley to grin mischievously and tease her to her saucy rebuff. But in a serious moment as this, there was no humour to it; all he wished was to let the truth be known. Nevertheless, Mr. Knightley knew that once Emma had herself a notion in her head, even his stoutest oxen would not be able to plough it out of her – he needed a way to open the young lady's obstinate mind...

"Emma," he said, "when was the last time you call someone a silly goose?" Though the inquiry seemed completely out of place, might even be a little silly for the occasion, the tone in Mr. Knightley's voice was nothing but seriousness.

The question surprised Emma; she looked up at Mr. Knightley with flabbergasted eyes.

"_W-what..._" it was impossible for her to see the relevance of his inquiry. Emma paused, closing her mouth without another word. Nevertheless, as Mr. Knightley's dark eyes beckoning her intently, she opened her mouth to speak again, still muddled and astonished, "It was... the day when the Andertons left Donwell..." she remembered, it was a bittersweet day, bitter, for she had lost her dear friend to Longfield, sweet, for her friend could at last return to where she called her home.

"You called Miss Anderton a silly goose, did not you?" asked Mr. Knightley.

"What does how I called Agnes have anything to do with what we are speaking of?" Emma wondered if Mr. Knightley's state of wetness had affected his sensible brain.

"No, how you called Miss Anderton had _nothing_ to do with _you_ being nonsensical, but I need you to answer my questions, Emma!" And the gentleman was not funning.

The young lady frowned, but was willing, for now, to oblige the gentleman so that she could decipher if he had caught a chill in his head.

"Yes, I called Agnes... a silly goose..." she confessed with a pout.

"How often did you call Miss Anderton a silly goose?"

The young lady was perturbed by the gentleman's inquisition, "_What..._" but Mr. Knightley returned her stare with an unwavering gaze. "O-often... very often..." she supplied, under protest.

"How many times?" Mr. Knightley succeeded immediately.

Emma's frown deepened, growing cross, "Countless times!"

"Why did you call her a silly goose?" he wasted no time to press.

"_Why_... why are you doing _this_?" she looked incredulously at him, "What does it have to do with _anything_?"

"Did you really think Miss Anderton silly?" The gentleman was focus and resolute.

"Of course _not_!" retorted she. "Agnes was the _most_ sensible girl I ever knew, I had never thought her silly for one moment of my life!"

"And _yet_ you called her a silly goose countless times!"

"I just liked calling her a silly goose!"

"But why, Emma?" he demanded.

"I... I..." he was maddening to her, "I do _not_ know!" cried she, stamping a foot of protestation.

"Of course you do!" instantly, Mr. Knightley returned.

Suffused with annoyance, Emma glared up at Mr. Knightley in torment, willing him to stop.

But Mr. Knightley was unshaken by his young friend's distress.

"Tell me, Emma!" he continued to press her.

Vexed, Emma shut her eyes and covered her ears, refusing to look at Mr. Knightley's penetrating eyes or listen to his commanding voice. In an effort to drown his maddening nonsense, she cried, "Why... why are you doing _this_?"

"I need you to answer my question, Emma!" Pressing her even harder, Mr. Knightley asked firmly, "_Why_ did you call Miss Anderton a silly goose?"

She was exasperated, her heart was pounding in her ears, and all she wished was for him to stop this absurdity at once.

Yet, the gentleman would not relent. "Answer me, Emma!"

The youth was now pushed to extreme irritation, and in her infuriated state, she emitted aloud, "Agnes was my dearest friend... I liked... I liked calling her by that name... because... because..."

"Because – _what_ – Emma?" Mr. Knightley ordered authoritatively.

"_Because_... _because_..." her hands crushing her ears, "_because_..." and at last, "_because_... it was... _endearing_ to me!"

Suddenly, the entire stable fell into silence.

But, as if the lightening outside had struck through the stable roof – something was igniting inside the stubborn youth. Emma opened her eyes slowly, unclasped her ears seeming in disbelief, and stared, in confused clarity, up at Mr. Knightley, who, presently breathing heavily, with a face as hot and scarlet as his young friend's, was looking down at her with thousands of pleading sparkles in his eyes!

The annoyance in Emma's eyes had faded, and, for the first time in three months, Mr. Knightley saw lights in her eyes, the sparkles of his young friend's beautiful hazel jewels were, at long last, returning! Though they were soft sparkles, not the tantalizing brilliance that shone through in her saucy moments, nevertheless, they told him that her headstrong mind was softening, and that she was about to open her mind's eyes to see the truth.

"You called Miss Anderton a silly goose," the commanding air in Mr. Knightley's voice had gone, only gentleness and sincerity were left in it, "because it was – _endearing_ – to you?"

Emma could not answer. Instead, she drew several deep breaths to steady her rackety heart, before blinking to examine the sincere figure in front of her.

For some silent moments, the soft sparkles in her eyes shimmered bewilderedly under the flickering lanterns in the stable, then, as they travelled from Mr. Knightley's person to his pleading eyes, the two old friends held each other's gaze, and Emma, slowly, gave Mr. Knightley a very sheepish nod.

For someone as clever as this Hartfield Mistress, the young lady was quite ashamed of not able to discern sooner the stratagem that Mr. Knightley employed to make his case.

"But..." her sheepishness seemed to grow by the moment, "I had called Miss Bates... erm... a silly goose... without her knowledge... _quite_ often..."

Emma, indeed, was not proud of her insolence towards Miss Bates, had not she been chastised by Mr. Knightley on many occasions for her intolerance for the good lady? But she needed more clarity – after all, she was still a little confused.

"I am aware of it, Emma," said Mr. Knightley, deliberately overlooking his young friend's admission, "but it does not mean that you thought of Miss Bates and Miss Anderton the same way."

Emma nodded ponderingly – she was not quite ready to be convinced.

"What about... the things I did that... you disapproved..." reluctantly she named, "like the time I lied... in order to go to the abandoned brewery with the Anderton children... er... was not it nonsensical to you?"

"Emma," replied Mr. Knightley, "did not you say that Miss Anderton was the most sensible girl you ever knew? Just because Miss Anderton was sensible does not mean that she did not have her silly moments." Looking into her hazel round eyes kindly, he added, "And just because you had a lapse in judgement did not make you nonsensical."

The young lady nodded again; her pondering countenance seemed gradually brightening.

"Humph..." she wished to hear more, "what about the time when I hid the French books from our library... what did you think of _that_?"

Mr. Knightley cocked an amused brow, "Telling Serle to use the books for the burning stove was not exactly _hiding _the books, Emma!"

In a trice, the cunning youth's eyes sparked. "I was going to bury... er... I mean _hide_ them in the garden!" she quickly came to her own defence, "But I ran out of time! The rain was beginning to pour, and the hole I dug was not nearly big enough for all the French titles that Miss Taylor made me read, I had to get back to the house before Papa found out that I was out in the rain! Besides, had a little mud sprinkled on the hem of my dress, I could blame it on a short walk in the shrubbery, but would not a _lot_ of mud soiling my gown be incriminating evidence that I was up for mischief? _Of course_ I must stop digging before mud splashed all over my person!" The young lady stood tall, tilted her chin up to the sky, resting her case in youthful dignity.

But through the corner of her eyes she caught the quirks on Mr. Knightley's lips, and immediately a small panic overtook her dignity. "You thought... you thought I was... nonsensical, did not you!"

Mr. Knightley shook his head, "No, I did not think you were nonsensical, Emma, only that it was your pathetic attempt to avoid learning French!"

The young lady winced, unable to disagree with the gentleman.

Blushing, feeling a little ashamed, "Ah... you must be... glad that Serle did not listen to me..." Emma asked, looking up sheepishly at Mr. Knightley under her long lashes.

Stifling his amusement, "Yes, I was glad that Serle knew the value of books and had the good sense to ask for your father's approval before burning the books in the stove," supplied Mr. Knightley.

Momentarily forgetting the shame of her blunder, the comical image of her father's shocked expression (tea-spitting, eyes-bursting, and jaw-dropping to his chin!) when the Hartfield cook asked if his master wished him to burn the generations-old Woodhouse's treasure to make supper afloat in the doted daughter's mind, and, without warning, unleashed several adorable giggles out of mischievous Emma.

Pleased by his young friend's lovely giggles, which he had missed so very much over the last three months, Mr. Knightley was hopeful that Emma might finally be seeing the truth.

But doubts continued to befall Emma, as soon as her giggles faded, she turned pensive quickly.

"I..." her voice was small, "I... am not accomplished... I mean... I am not accomplished as... as... Miss... Fairfax..." and her imploring eyes were on Mr. Knightley's.

"Emma," Mr. Knightley looked kindly into Emma's eyes, his voice was just as kind, "have not I said that I had _never_ compared you with anyone?"

Emma only nodded meekly.

"And there has _never_ been any doubt in my mind that you can be as accomplished as you set your mind to be, Emma," confessed the gentleman.

Emma's contemplating eyes stared at Mr. Knightley for a while, considering his words, and before long, a crimson blush slowly irradiating her face. She looked down, self-consciously, at her half-boots.

"You..." her sweet voice was as bashful as her soft pink cheeks, "call me... nonsensical..." the dreadful word was no longer dreadful to her, "because it was... erm... _endearing_... to _you?"_

"I am afraid that _is _the truth, Emma!" Mr. Knightley's confession was as sheepish as Emma's inquiry.

"And you..." she slowly turned her twinkling eyes up at him, "never thought that... I was... erm... _nonsensical_?"

Mr. Knightley could detect a hint of nervousness in his young friend.

"Emma," he smiled, "would not it be a falsehood if I told you that you had never committed a nonsensical act?" She gave him a helpless nod, and he saw the twinkles in her eyes dimming.

"But," he quickly assured, "I have _not_ a single doubt in my mind that you can be _just_ as sensible as you are fanciful at your choosing. Though I agree with you that you _are_ fanciful, you are _not _the nonsensical girl as you so vehemently declared!"

Mr. Knightley's honesty and sincerity had finally affected Emma; she seemed ready and willing to believe him. But right when her assuaged face was about to break into a smile, a forgotten string suddenly tucking at her heart, instantly sent away her smile, casting a despondent spell over her entire person.

It did not take Mr. Knightley long to surmise the reason for Emma's reluctance, and the reason plagued him greatly!

"Emma," he said, and she lifted her dejected gaze at him, "do you really believe that I had been your friend only out of pity since your mother died?"

She looked down dimly, swallowed an ache, and shrugged. "Is not it the truth?" was her quiet reply.

Troubled by Emma's answer, Mr. Knightley asked, "Is that _really_ what you think?"

The challenge in Mr. Knightley's tone caused Emma to look up at him in surprise.

"Were _not_ we friends when I saddled you on Bull's Eye at the Abbey, dug you out of the pond in the Donwell garden, rescued you from the bee hives at Hartfield, and visited with you your first dairy cow?" Mr. Knightley asked, he saw Emma's intent eyes lightened, "What...what was her name?" searching his memory, "Lady... Lady Moo... Moo..."

"Lady _Moolington_!" exasperated the young lady, rolling her gleaming eyes, "How could you forget?"

"Pardon me, my friend!" the gentleman bade with a gracious bow. "What about" he carried on, "the time when you told me you hated that '_disgusting' _boy Arthur Otway? You ought to remember that day!"

Emma immediately snorted, "_Of_ _course_ I remember that day! That person was a disgrace to men, he had _no_ manners whatsoever! It was my misfortune that I met him again yesterday at the Ford's! He is still the same disgusting boy – _only_ taller!" The young mistress pouted and folded her arms crossly across her bosom.

The gentleman broke into chuckles – recalling the day when the Knightleys and Otways were invited to the Woodhouses for a dinner party, witnessing how four-year-old Emma Woodhouse scowled furiously at the Otway boy when he called her a freckled-nose, and how his little friend screamed "_Murderer!_" when the same boy tore the arm out of her favourite doll. He had never seen anyone's face turning beet red faster than Mrs. Otway's since that day!

"What about," once the gaiety of his chuckle dispersed, "after my father died," Mr. Knightley resumed gently, "when you told me that there must be more tall trees he could climb and more rabbits he could chase in Heaven, that there were far more oxen and lambs grazing the meadows than he could count, that he must be the happiest man up in the Almighty's House?"

Mr. Knightley looked gratefully and beckoningly at Emma, "Were not we friends then, Emma? Before your mother passed away?"

Emma felt a pang in her heart, the gleam in her eyes vanished. Her shoulders drooped and she looked down, casting her eyes at her hands. An ache borne out of the fresh harsh memory rushing at her, she swallowed, and then muttered dishearteningly, "But... Mrs. Goddard said... that... when my mother died Papa was distraught... and that... a kind gentleman such as you could not have resisted being kind to our family... particularly..." her voice faltering, "...little Miss Woodhouse..."

_There! __There was the root cause of that ridiculous absurd notion in her! – _Mr. Knightley was certain_._

The gentleman looked thoroughly and absolutely appalled! "Did Mrs. Goddard tell you _that_?" he demanded.

"No..." Emma replied quietly to the ground, "I overheard her speaking to Miss Bates after the dinner party..."

Mr. Knightley shook his head in uttered dismay – though he held high regards for Mrs. Goddard's accomplishment as a schoolmistress, how he wished she would set a better example for her pupils than being a gossipmonger!

"Since when did you start listening to anyone's words, especially Mrs. Goddard's, Emma?" He could hardly suppress the mounting irritation brought forth by the revelation.

Pursing her lips, the young lady would not answer.

"Emma!"

From the tone of his voice, Emma knew that Mr. Knightley wanted her to look at him – and such tone implied that he refused to take no for an answer – she reluctantly complied.

"I am aware that I have told you countless times to respect the words of those, such as Mrs. and Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard, who are far older and wiser than you. But I would make an exception this time – There is _absolutely_ _no_ _truth_ in what Mrs. Goddard told Miss Bates the night after the dinner party, you must _not_ heed what she said!" instructed Mr. Knightley firmly.

Unfortunately, Emma remained wordless, and the dubious light in her eyes caused Mr. Knightley to ask, "You do _not_ believe me?"

She only stared at him with her obstinate eyes.

Mr. Knightley ran a hand through his damp dark hair, took a deep breath to quiet the growing grudge he had for the cause of Emma's disbelief, inwardly vowing to eradicate the unfounded notion in his young friend's heart!

"Emma," he began, "do you recall our conversations regarding true friends on the day the Andertons removed?"

Her hazel eyes shone quizzically.

"Do you recall" asked the gentleman, "what I wished for in a true friend?"

Even though it had already been three months, their conversation on that day was still fresh in Emma's mind. She nodded, mindfully.

"Then – do you recollect how you wished me all the luck in England in finding a true friend?"

She nodded again, but in worried silence.

"Do you know that I need not any luck in England to find my true friend?"

Emma stood there motionless. The fear that Mr. Knightley was about to reveal that Jane Fairfax was his true friend nearly overtook the youth. She could feel her tears coming, and she was desperately trying to brace herself for the harshest reality she ever had to face.

"For I already _have_ one, Emma!" imparted Mr. Knightley, his gaze never left her face, "And – _she_ –" he saw her squeezing her eyes shut, "is standing in front of me at this very instant!"

Emma gasped! Her teary eyes flung wide-open in astonishment.

"Did it _ever_ occur to you" Mr. Knightley continued, "that you had _every_ _one_ of the qualities that I wished for in a true friend?"

"I... I..." her heart kept hammering at her chest, the usually clever Emma seemed lost for words. "I... I... _No_!" she yelped, still astounded.

Mr. Knightley's mouth quirked, "Well," his eyes dancing, "do you see it _now_?"

Such revelation in stubborn Emma had the effect of making it difficult for her to breathe. But with mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made – indeed – rapid progress!

"I... I..." her mind careening wildly through the conversation she had with Mr. Knightley on the day Agnes left, she could almost laugh at her own daftness in not seeing the truth in its entirety! And in two blinks, her eyes were beaming like the summer sun. "_Y__es!_" she inhaled to catch her breaths, "I see it... I see it... I see it _now!_"

Hardly able to contain his own excitement, "Emma," the gentleman smiled, "even though we are sixteen years apart, you have always shown understanding beyond your years, and you understand me, this is why we are friends, why I value our friendship. I have never pitied you for one single moment in my life," looking deeply into her eyes, "I hope you believe me now!"

The vivacious sparkles that marked the lively spirit of the young mistress had made a victorious comeback, and they are currently bearing delightfully into the Donwell Master's heart.

"I believe you, Mr. Knightley! I believe you now!" Emma exhaled with overwhelming joy.

And along with the joy that was exhaled, was the unbearable notion that had given Emma misery for three very, very long days. This young Hartfield Mistress, the once, and _still_, favourite guest of Donwell Abbey, the beloved Miss Emma of all the Abbey servants – and – the one true friend of the very worthy Donwell Master revelled in exhilarations. The fair mistress's angelic features were no longer marred by the glumness that had shadowed her since the Andertons removed; her magnificent eyes dazzled lustrously at the present, as millions of fresh water droplets clinging onto green forest foliage, reflecting the glorious colours of the rainbow rays after the summer rain. The lively lass's buoyancy that had been dormant for three dreary months, had, at long last, sprang back to live! The dampness in the stable air was expelled by her jubilant aura; everything that was insipid an hour ago had now magically come alive. The gaiety of Emma's joyful awakening had infused curious envy into all the stable inhabitants – snorts, sniggers, and snickers abound were echoing songfully in the place.

Now that peace and understanding and the genuine friendship between two old friends were restored, the presence of their faithful admirer was at last given notice! Wobble – who had been waiting patiently for some desperately craved attention from his beloved master and mistress, listening fastidiously to the exchanges between the two deities, as if rising and falling in moments of hope and disappointment with his worshipped god, and gulping down the tiniest of sobs and sighs and whimpering in sadness along with his equally worshipped goddess all this time – had, assuredly, concluded that the sudden decline in his spirit the last two and three quarters days was a mere short-lived freakish episode that took place in his happy puppyhood. The separation from his master, undoubtedly, was unthinkably disagreeable to the golden pup, but the separation between his two deities and the plunge of his goddess's spirit were utterly unbearable to him. Just as Emma's heavy heart had been uplifted, Wobble's rumbustious spirit was now exuberated up into the clouds! The elated spaniel was wagging his tails feverishly, hopping, dancing, springing to triumphant glee, and weaving his busy furry self ecstatically between Emma's skirt and Mr. Knightley's boots.

"Oh, Wobble!" exclaimed Emma, scooping up the fur ball with surfeit of love and affection, "I am sorry that you had to wait so long!"

Squirming excitedly in his goddess's arms, the golden furry slobbered a glut of wet tickles on Emma's cheeks.

"Mr. Knightley..." dodging the puppy's slobbery tongue right and left, "pray... take... Wobble... back to Donwell..." Hands, paws, flabby ears, rapturous woofs, resounding kisses, and unruly giggles were fluttering in the air, "He misses... you and... the Abbey too much... he has not been... eating as he should... the last few days!"

Drinking in the blissful scenery in front of him, Mr. Knightley received the overjoyed spaniel from Emma's hands. He felt the urge to tease his young friend coming, and he fully intended to deploy it at once.

Mr. Knightley cocked a sportive brow at Emma, "Ah... so Wobble has not been eating..." shaking his head, "_Poor _Wobble!" he sighed, "_Poor,_ _poor innocent Wobble!_" he sighed some more. And then with an insufferable, ridiculously wide grin on his face, the gentleman said to his young friend, "I _sure_ hope you have learnt your lesson, Emma. This _ought_ to teach you to never act rashly before you find out the truth!"

"_Never_!" wrinkling her pretty little nose, Emma beamed her smuggest, sauciest, and most brilliant smile at her grown up friend. "I shall _never_ learn my lesson in case it would _please_ you!" And with that, the mischievous nearly-fifteen-year-old broke into a peal of lovely giggles.

Could there be a greater burden lifted? Mr. Knightley did not know. But after three long months of worries, frustrations, and feeling of helplessness, he was immensely grateful to once again see the unstrained radiance of his dear young friend returning. And what was more, her sauciness pleased him!

But he would never admit it to her... Rolling his eyes, the gentleman's dark eyes twinkled remarkably. He straightened the curls on his lips, attempting to pull a severe face as he declared, "_Nonsensical girl..."_

Only failing miserably when he burst into a ferocious sneeze!

* * *

**A/N:** If you have read through the whole chapter, you are a very patient person! :-) It's a very long chapter, isn't it? But as the misunderstanding was quite deep on Emma's side and she could be very stubborn, it had to take Mr. Knightley some persuading to convince her.

I had never thought Emma was really jealous of Jane Fairfax. Emma was fanciful, but she never struck me as the jealous sort. Had Mr. Knightley not in the picture, I believe she would have been able to brush aside her uneasiness for the accomplished Jane Fairfax with ease. Obviously the two girls were too different to suit as friends, but it was only when she was in fear of losing Mr. Knightley's good opinions that she began to have apprehension for Jane – much like when she thought Mr. Knightley was in love with Harriet in canon that's when she began to 'distant' herself from Harriet and examine the true station of the girl.

Btw - just wondering if anyone connected Emma's booklist in this plot to the list that Mr. Knightley spoke of with Mrs. Weston... _"This list she drew up when she was only fourteen – I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time..." Chapter V, Emma_

I actually think that Mr. Knightley had kept that list much longer, he just didn't tell Mrs. Weston. ;-)

Oh, and I love the way JLM (Mr. Knightley) called RG (Emma) 'nonsensical girl' in the 2009 Emma! It was an absolute term of endearment, and one of the many inspirations for this plot.

Alright, this wraps it up. Thank you so much, as always, for reading and commenting! And thank you for those whom I could not PM to express my gratitude for your reviews, for all reviews serve as encouragement and motivation for me to write! :-)


	42. Chapter 42

_A/N: Can't believe it's been more than a year since I updated this story! RL has been really busy, and I am a slow writer. :( _

_It's been so long, if you are even reading this author's note, I'm grateful! T__his plot is a follow-up of chapter 11, and more... its focus is quite different from previous plots, I sincerely hope you would give it a chance. _

**Chapter Forty-Two**

* * *

Now that the jubilant spirit of spring was forgotten, the warmth of summer rays was no longer felt, and the ripen crops were thoroughly harvested, as December marked the end of autumn, the work of winter had begun.

It was a typical December afternoon, when the clouds canopied all things out of doors, and a small fire in the hearth was glowing in the Donwell Abbey library, where the Donwell Master and his bailiff were discussing the drawing and storing of turnips for the Donwell stocks…

"The drains that Anderton and Hackman put in gave us a particularly bountiful harvest this year, leaving the ground of the home farm in very fine conditions," remarked Mr Knightley, pleased by the hard work of his excellent labourers.

"Indeed, sir," echoed William Larkins. "This has been one of the best harvests in all the years I have served Donwell; we shall have ample turnips to feed the cattle and sheep this winter."

"Would you agree that two-thirds of the turnips should be drawn and carried to the steading for the cattle and leave the rest on the ground for the sheep?" inquired the master.

"I think that would be prudent, sir," the bailiff concurred, "leaving only one-third of the turnips should avoid the ground being manured so much that it would prevent the perfect development of future crops."

While Mr Knightley and William Larkins were discussing turnips stripping and preserving the optimal conditions of grounds, Wobble, the beloved pet of Donwell Abbey, had sauntered into the library. As his master and his master's bailiff were engrossed in their conversations, the sound of the spaniel's paws meeting the oaken floor went entirely unnoticed.

"Allowing the cattle to feed on the top and tail of the turnips has a weakening effect on them," said the master, "we should instruct the labourers to remove them before carrying the turnips to the steading for the cattle."

Nodding, the bailiff replied, "Your wish had already been conveyed to the field-workers, sir."

Pleased that he was able to meet his master's request before it was even spoken, a minuscule quirk was forming on William Larkins' lips. In an effort to nip his budding smile, the bailiff looked down quickly, but was caught by surprise at the sight of Wobble – the golden furry, once sinking down to the floor by his master's feet, had begun clawing the rug under his paws and succeeded in ripping several strands of old threads apart, was presently chewing on the ravelled fabric with vigour. Instantly, the stony face of the bailiff tensed, the usually rigid man turned indignant and staggered a step.

Mr Knightley noticed William Larkins' discomposure; his eyes followed the man's hostile stare and came to Wobble at his feet.

"I am sorry," said the master, hastening to rise from his chair behind the writing desk, "I did not know that Wobble had slipped into the library," he stooped to pick up his spaniel, whose teeth were still entangled to the rug.

For eighteen months the bailiff and his master's dog had shared their presence in Donwell Abbey, though very seldom in the same room, the unpleasant existence of the spaniel was constantly felt by the bailiff.

William Larkins' monotonous voice turned stern, "But, sir..." he cried.

While disengaging Wobble's teeth from the rug, Mr Knightley looked up at him curiously.

"The dog had _ruined_ your rug!" William Larkins finished hotly.

It was one of those very rare occasions when the bailiff would forget his decorousness and spoke impassionedly to his master.

Mr Knightley turned to look at the rug, a helpless thin line moulding his lips, which was succeeded by an equally helpless sigh, "It is _indeed_ a shame!"

Once Mr Knightley finished his lamentation, William Larkins saw him rubbing the dog's head affectionately, and the bailiff was abhorred.

"But sir!" even though there was a large gap between him and the dog, William Larkins felt it necessary to move back another step, but his obvious disdain carried forth his voice, "You do not care that this _beast _has ruined your possession? This rug has been in Donwell Abbey since when your father was still alive!"

The bailiff's tenure at Donwell had started in his tender age apprenticing with his father serving faithfully the late Donwell Master, he was present the day when the rug was laid on the floor.

With Wobble wiggling in his arms, Mr Knightley stood up straight with a rueful smile, mindful of keeping the careful distance between his spaniel and bailiff.

"Wobble is bored, Larkins," he said. "Miss Woodhouse is suffering from mumps since three days ago, has not been able to come to the Abbey, or leave her chamber for that matter, and I have had little time to spend with him. Mr and Mrs Hodges do a fine job keeping him occupied, but they are not young, it is not easy for them to keep up with a young dog like him."

While William Larkins remained in his indignation, Mr Knightley proceeded to carry Wobble out of the library, and after a few minutes he returned alone.

* * *

For the next hour, the image of the destructive canine had subsided in William Larkins' mind, the frayed fibres of the rug, albeit an eyesore whenever his eyes were upon them, were not so much considered, and the bailiff's stony expression was once again plastered on his face.

From drawing and storing of turnips, the discussion between the master and the bailiff had turned to the rearing and feeding of cattle, and then to a matter that the bailiff thought necessitated his master's attention...

"Sir," William Larkins cleared his throat, "perhaps you should know that Joseph had lost his watch."

Mr Knightley frowned slightly, "Did he lose it while feeding the cattle?"

"No, sir, he thought he had lost it in his house. He said that it must have dropped through the hole in his coat pocket, he and his wife had searched every corner of his cottage, but the watch did not turn up. Perhaps he had lost it on his way from his cottage to the field."

"Is he still searching for its whereabouts?"

"He vowed to keep searching until he would find it, sir."

"But," the master considered, "a cattleman needs his watch to keep his cattle, for the rule is '_Feed and fodder cattle at fixed times, and dispense their food and fodder in a fixed routine.'" _

Opening the drawer of his writing desk, Mr Knightley removed an old time piece from the drawer. As he was examining the time piece, he heard barking and sounds of claws scratching coming through the library door.

"Joseph will" he said as he strode to the door, "need a way to keep time until his watch turns up."

And when he opened the door, Wobble, with a ball by his paws, was feverishly wagging his tail and grinning happily up at him.

Mr Knightley chuckled, "Is it _that_ time already?" speaking to his spaniel with pleasure and delight, and peering at the time piece in his hand, "It is precisely two o'clock. Well done, Wobble!"

The excited spaniel returned his master's compliment with two shrill barks of joy, more vigorous wagging of his tail, and a grin wilder than one could imagine.

"I am... sor... sorry, Mis... Mister... Knightley!" waddled in the stout middle-aged housekeeper, puffing and panting. "I was" she heaved, "mending the... drapes that..." more heaves "Wobble chewed away... in the draw... drawing room... but as soon… as the clock...struck... Wobble bolt... bolted off..." Still catching her breaths, poor Mrs Hodges surely was no rival to the four-legged furry friend.

"It does not signify, Mrs Hodges," Mr Knightley spoke kindly, "the library door was shut, Wobble did not come in, there was no harm done. Larkins and I are about to finish our meeting, if you could keep Wobble company for few more minutes, I shall take him outside to play ball once we are done."

Bending at her thick waist, Mrs Hodges exerted to pick up the ball from the floor. She said to the furry as she uncurled slowly, "Come, Wobble! Let us go back to the drawing room..."

But Wobble would not move. The spaniel gave a whimper in disappointment and rubbed his head against his master's ankle. Even after Mrs Hodges' many entreaties, he stood stubbornly by his master, sniffing at his boot and clinging to his side. At last, Mr Knightley knelt down next to him, rubbed his head and neck with affection and spoke gently to him, "Go with Mrs Hodges, Wobble, we shall play ball soon!" Only then Wobble was willing to follow Mrs Hodges to the drawing room.

Even standing many feet away, the scene where his master coaxing his dog was taken in clearly, and austerely, by William Larkins. The bailiff was mystified by his master's act in a very disagreeable way.

Since Mr Knightley was in short coats, William Larkins had known his young master had a particular fondness for canines. The bailiff had seen dogs of various breeds living in the Donwell estate as his young master's pets. But it was the Harlequin Great Dane, Bull's Eye, who had completely won over his master's affection.

Bull's Eye was a beast in every sense of the word, the bailiff had never gone near the animal for a single moment, and Mr Knightley would never allow the beast be in close proximity with him. As no canine had ever found favour in William Larkins' eyes, Bull's Eye was no exception. Nevertheless, it was undeniable that the beast was useful – Bull's Eye had caught rats, chased away foxes and unwelcomed trespassers, he had gone hunting with his master fetching him pheasants, partridge, and rare prizes. And any Donwell tenant would agree that if they must name a common trait between the Donwell bailiff and the Donwell Great Dane, it would have to be that both were fiercely loyal to the one they served. The Great Dane was faithful to his master in all the waking hours of his life, he had gone everywhere Mr Knightley went, scowled off anyone whom he sensed posting danger to him, caught thief who pickpocketed Mr Knightley in the Continent, chased away highwayman during one of his master's sojourns.

Though the bailiff was afraid of canines all his life, even he would assent that Great Danes were symbols of dignity, strength, and power. Bull's Eye was well-bred, well-formed, his smoothly muscled body was regal and agile, the beast was worthy of his master's name, his master's affection, his master's partiality – but – the spaniel presently standing several feet away from him was _not_!

Other than all day long hoarding his master's and his servants' attention, what had this loathsome dog done for the Donwell Master? Had he _ever_ chased away a fox, a pickpocket thief, or a highwayman carrying a pistol? This useless creature had never even caught a single rat in his lazy life, and now he had destroyed the precious rug of the esteemed late Donwell Master and chewed away the expensive heavy drapery in this ancient house. Yet, his master would do _nothing_ to correct the detestable creature's way but to encourage him with his blind partiality!

As he watched Mr Knightley's eyes follow, fondly, Wobble leaving the library after Mrs Hodges, indignation was mounting rapidly inside William Larkins. Heedless to propriety, he thought he must speak to his master at once.

"Sir!" his already severe face darkened, "This dog had _ruined_ your rug and the expensive drapes, are you _indeed_ going to play ball with him?"

Mr Knightley's delightful smile, which William Larkins found appalling, was still on his face when he replied, "Miss Woodhouse has been teaching Wobble to tell time. Every afternoon on the hour when the clock strikes, she would do a different activity with him until he could associate the time with the event – two o'clock is time to play ball. I am impressed that Wobble remembers, and I must accredit Miss Woodhouse for her scheme – It works!"

Faithfulness had been the mark of the bailiff for nearly forty years, but it was safe to say that insistence was the other trait that was just as prevalent in the man. William Larkins wasted no time to succeed, "But sir, this dog had done you disservice by ruining your possessions, would not it be punishment that he deserves, _not_ rewards?"

"If Wobble's routine is not kept up, he may grow unaccustomed to it eventually," supplied Mr Knightley, "Miss Woodhouse has been industrious in teaching Wobble; it would be a shame to let her endeavour goes to waste."

The duties of a steward, particularly to one who took great pride in his office, must not be constrained to running and managing his master's farm, and when his master's senses were in danger of lapsing, in spite of his own humble station, it was only right that William Larkins should carry out his duty to speak some much-needed sense into his master's head!

"But sir, there is time for _everything_ – there is time to reward _and_ time to reprimand! This dog has behaved badly, and it would take proper reproof to straighten his ways, but if his ways were not straightened promptly, he shall _never_ learn!"

"Wobble is a very good-natured dog, Larkins," the master returned calmly, "I assure you that he did not ruin the drapes and the rug out of malicious intent."

"Which_, _sir," the bailiff's face had darkened another two shades, "has made it _all_ the more important to cease his ill behaviour at once – _before_ he becomes accustomed to the pleasure of misdeeds!"

Mr Knightley took a breath, "We are speaking of a dog, Larkins, not a criminal," he continued his calm reply, "Wobble had never misbehaved when Miss Woodhouse was able to visit him every day; it was only boredom that drove him to his mischief. He is contended when his vigour is spent in constructive ways. Incarcerating him in dog gaol – figuratively speaking of course – would not help the matter."

"_Then_ – perhaps depriving him of his meals, or giving him a healthful dose of spanking _would_!" suggested William Larkins, in righteous air.

Having known William Larkins since he was his father's bailiff, Mr Knightley had always respected the man's uncompromising character, which had made him the most upright, resolute, and sought after bailiff in Surrey. The man would never settle for anything inferior to his ideals, and Mr Knightley held an utmost gratitude for his loyalty to him and his father, but the same admirable quality could, at times, shut the good man's mind from sensible perspectives that differed from his. Apart from William Larkins' impervious disposition, Mr Knightley feared that the tragic encounter with a stray hound when he was a little boy had left him with an unrelenting prejudice against dogs of all natures.

Reckoned that their opposing views regarding the treatment of Wobble would likely lead to more resentment in William Larkins, Mr Knightley thought it was time to change the subject. With a polite smile, the Donwell Master held out the watch in his hand to his bailiff, "Would you take this to Joseph before the morrow, Larkins, as a loan until his watch turns up?" he bade.

Standing there looking stern and agitated, William Larkins sucked in the disdain befell him from the fruitless debate. "Certainly, Mr Knightley," he said stiffly, receiving the time piece from his master. At once, he inclined his head to Mr Knightley and turned swiftly for the library door, hastening to leave the scene of his exasperation.

* * *

For the days that followed, little had changed – Mr Knightley and William Larkins carried on their meetings almost daily in the Donwell library while Emma's presence continued to be sorely missed. Mr and Mrs Hodges had done their uttermost to maintain Wobble's hourly activities, but even with the help of Old Harry and Mrs Mayson, they could hardly keep up with the energetic dog. Every afternoon when the clock chimed twice, no matter where and with whom he was, Wobble, with a ball clasped between his teeth, would scamper off to find his worshipped master, and as soon as the sound of the spaniel's barks or his paws scratching the library door appeared, the master, much to his bailiff's chagrin, would peer at his watch with a delightful smile and quickened to go over the several remaining matters in their meeting.

The December sun was kind on half of those days, allowing Mr Knightley to take Wobble outside for a game of chasing and fetching ball, or simply an uninhabited run in the field to bring the rumbustious spaniel to exhaustion; and on the days when the rain was pouring and the fields too wet and muddy, the gentleman and his dog would play ball in the many long corridors inside the Abbey until the beloved furry was contented and no longer wish to sink his teeth in the drapes or the rugs or the legs of his master's desk.

Now, such routine had lasted splendidly for more than a week, until Mr Knightley had to leave Donwell for London to settle several business affairs.

* * *

It was the day after the Donwell Master had left his home, and it was also the day when rents were collected from the Donwell tenants. William Larkins had come to the Abbey to look over the accounts without Mr Knightley. He had been sitting behind his master's writing desk for a good three quarters of an hour, registering the collection on the ledger with meticulous attention and immaculate precision.

The bailiff was thoroughly absorbed in his work – his master had entrusted his estate in his hands, there was nothing in this world more satisfying than seeing his duties done to Perfection, which was the equal of Pride and Honour in his eyes. Every stroke that he marked on the ledger, every wish of his master that he met, every matter arose that he resolved before it reached his master's ears contributed to the Pride and Honour of the man. In the presence of his master, William Larkins' diligence and faithfulness was inimitable, but in his master's absence, the bailiff's peerless ethics, his loyalty, his devotion were manifested manifolds.

The rent money were locked away and the accounts were half finished, everything was working to William Larkins' pure satisfaction when he felt a sudden chill shooting up his spine, the tiny hair on his nape stood up like ice needles, and when the bailiff took one quick glance down at his boots, he sprang out of the chair and onto his two trembling feet!

"_When..." _he shrieked, "w_hen_ did you come in?" hollering at the furry kneeling on his two front paws with animosity.

Tracing the sound of the shrill, Wobble looked up with his unseeing eyes and gave William Larkins a bark and a toothy grin.

"What are you _doing_ here?" demanded William Larkins, part in fear, part in fury, and as precautionary measure he had moved back several steps.

"You _cannot_ stay here!" declared he, half courageously. Thrusting his hands continuously in the air, "Go... go away... Go away… _now_…" he was determined to shoo the spaniel off.

If the bailiff had learnt his previous lesson, he would have known that the vigorous movements that his hand made were exhilarating invitations to the playful dog, but unfortunately, even this shrewd bailiff could not escape the fate of losing his clear-mindedness in times of fear.

Without the slightest hesitation, friendly Wobble got on his paws and came striding towards the bailiff with great anticipation.

Each inch that Wobble migrated towards William Larkins had turned into an iron hammer pounding at the fearful man's chest. Beads of cold sweat were rolling down his temples. If Mr Knightley or Miss Woodhouse had been present, the master and the young mistress would have called the canine to a halt, but Mr Knightley was in London and Miss Woodhouse was still plagued by the mumps, William Larkins looked round with distressing eyes but there was no one near to save his life.

Anybody in a dire circumstance would have called aloud for help, but the bailiff, who loathed cowardice all his life, was not anybody. His father had taught him that self-sufficiency was the mark of manhood, a man of Pride and Honour was a giver of help, not a receiver of aid. _Help_ was a forbidden word – such _word_ did not exist in the Larkins' vocabulary – under no circumstance, even in a dire one as this, could force the word out of the man's mouth!

Rummaging through his fast shrivelling brain desperate for a way to save his own life, all William Larkins could find was fear and panic. But, by the power of the Divine, an image, suddenly, along with a word, arose in his disarranged mind...

In the nick of time, "_KNEEL!"_ he bellowed, out with the order he had heard Mr Knightley gave the dog on several occasions, though in more of a stiff voice than his master's commanding tone.

At the sound of the command, the surprised Wobble stopped moving, he shifted his head left and right, and then fell slowly on his front knees.

A gush of relief penetrated William Larkins. Mopping his brows with a shaking hand, he breathed, heavily, trying to steady himself and survey the kneeling spaniel two feet away from him.

The wild rhythm of his heart had not ceased, as the thuds of his chest drummed his ears, his vision blurred, and a memory with crushing weight caught up with him…

_It was one afternoon in his boyhood days; he was walking along a field minding his business like a six-year-old boy should, when, out of nowhere, a stray hound appeared several yards in front of him. He was cautious, as little William had always been a cautious boy, while keeping his eyes on the hound who was staring hostilely at him he steered his small feet onto the side of the road to avoid entering straight into the canine's path. But without warning, not even the bearing of sharp teeth or a low guttural growl, the hound charged up to him and sank his teeth into the calf of his left leg. Little William screamed and cried at his attacker, yelling and pleading furiously for him to stop. Whether it was the hound that had dragged him, or he who had dragged the hound trying to escape, little William did not know, it had felt like he was being mauled by the monster for seemingly hours before his father would save him from the ordeal. There was pain, excruciating, piercing, heart stopping pain, and there was blood everywhere, on his leg, his body, the ground, the monster…_

Nearly fifty years had lapsed, the gruesome image of his torn up leg had faded, but the deep scar it left had not. His eyes and hand had involuntarily moved to his leg where beneath his stocking the scar laid, and his trembling hand jerked as if the wound still hurt even without being touched by his fingers.

William Larkins swallowed the memory down his throat; from the unseen scar on his leg his eyes shifted to the unseeing dog two feet away from him. The sight in front of him was nothing like what was in his boyhood memory – there was no monster charging up to him, only a dog, kneeling stilly on his paws.

He kept standing there frigidly, scrutinizing the spaniel with unforgiving eyes.

"Stop _LAUGHTING_ at me!" he barked at the dog with rage. He thought he saw on the dog's face a smirk, a contemptuous smirk, mocking him, reminding him that he was once had, and that he could be had again!

But when Wobble did not answer, he breathed, and his vision became clearer, rather than a smirk, he discerned a smile…

"What are you _SMILING_ at?" he demanded angrily, wishing the loathsome animal was no longer in his sight.

Holding still, Wobble remained silent.

"_STOP_ smiling at me!" decreed the man.

Wobble only shifted very slightly on his bended knees.

Impatient by the canine's lack of response, "What do you _WANT_?" William Larkins asked with repulse.

This time, a small whimper of a bark came out of Wobble, his knees shifted slightly again, though still kneeling obediently on the floor, he tilted his head up higher, facing directly at William Larkins with his tinged blue eyes.

"_WHY_ are you looking at me?"

Not that the austere man had forgotten that the dog could not see, but he felt his defected eyes boring straight into his. And he would rather the dog be growling than looking up at him. If the dog were growling, he could at least react by hating the beast and defend himself by throwing something at the monster had he attacked him. Yet_…_ the dog was kneeling submissively on the ground, did not seem like a threat to his safety... and if one would ask him... and if he would be honest… he could have sworn that there was a pleading look on the spaniel's face…

_But_ – the canine-loather wondered – _what could any dog possibly want from him… of all people…_

Feeling crossed, "What do you _want?" _he asked again.

Wobble only gave a tiny whine, his tinged blue eyes continued to appeal to the human.

William Larkins felt exhausted, "What… do… you… want?" he was on the verge of going mad.

The confused man stood there staring at the quiet spaniel; the fear in him had long been replaced with frustrations and annoyance.

Finally, the stillness in Wobble had worn off. The spaniel leaned forward arching his back for a long awaited stretch, then he shifted to one side and to the other and stretched his forelegs, his elbows, his wrists to the fullest extent until a grin spread across his jaw – Yet, in two blinks, he tucked his knees back under his frame, resumed his kneeling post in obedience, lifting his face up imploringly at the human who had ordered him to kneel.

In his helplessness, William Larkins watched the canine move, and he seemed to, at last, understand what the dog wanted.

He swallowed, "You…" his paled face coloured a sheepish shade of red, "…erm... may sit now..."

Wobble whimpered a heavy sigh of relief, lowered his furry bottom onto the floor with a grateful smile, while William Larkins breathed a similar sigh and mopped the last droplets of weary sweat off his brows.

* * *

Once Wobble was allowed to sit, in spite of how the bailiff shooed and pleaded him to leave, the Donwell pet was determined to be comfortable in the library. Though his fear for the spaniel was not nearly as severe as it once was, William Larkins was undoubtedly vexed by Wobble's insistence on intruding on him. Nevertheless, Duties came before Annoyance, as the bailiff had not finished looking over the accounts, he must suffer from sharing his master's library with his master's dog for the time being.

Fortunately, only several more minutes had past, Mrs Hodges was rushing into the library looking for Wobble. William Larkins was overjoyed (unexpressed of course), but regrettably, the poor housekeeper, who had been exhausted for maintaining her master and Miss Emma's beloved pet, was apparently suffering from a wretched cold. The middle-aged woman begged the bailiff's pardon for not obeying Mr Knightley's order of keeping Wobble away from him. Though William Larkins was a severe man, his heart was not unkind. The watery sniffles and dry coughs from the poor woman were enough to move the man to say – through secretly gritted teeth – that he did not mind Wobble's presence in the library and would gladly relieve her from her duty. Had Mrs Hodges heard what the man said from someone else's mouth, she would have dismissed it as a jest, but the housekeeper heard the bailiff with her own aching ears and dared not to contradict the unyielding man, hence, she thanked Mr Larkins sincerely and carried herself out of the library with a miserable sneeze.

For the next half an hour, delicate peace pervaded the Donwell library. Whereas the bailiff had occupied the domain of Mr Knightley's writing desk, Wobble sat, half the time, by the fire and chewed on the old doll that Emma gave him, and, the rest of the time, roamed the four corners of the room until he was bored and returned to his doll. By and large, Wobble had kept his distance from William Larkins, and William Larkins had kept his nose in the ledger focusing on the accounts.

For the first time since his tragic assault by the monster hound, William Larkins was alone with a canine in closer proximity. The dog seemed harmless, and for as long as he was left alone with his work, such situation, albeit unpleasant, was tolerable to the bailiff.

Now – _THAT_ – was before the clock in the corridor began to chime...


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter Forty-Three**

As soon as the clock chimed twice, Wobble, who had been chewing, pawing, tossing and catching the doll all on his own, abandoned what he was doing and bolted out of the library. For a brief moment, William Larkins revelled in the lack of Wobble's presence in the room, but no sooner had he laid down the quill, stretched his limbs and arched his back, the Donwell pet came scurrying back into the library with a ball between his teeth and his frolicsome grinning jaw.

The furry stopped in front of the writing desk, lowered the ball onto the floor, and gave William Larkins two excited shrieks.

Irritated by the dog's return, William Larkins looked down at the spaniel impatiently, demanding, "_What_ is it that you want?"

Circling and hovering over the ball, Wobble paused to answer the human with two exuberant barks.

But when William Larkins saw the ball and the feverishly wagging tail of the gleeful dog, he gave a contemptuous snort and responded nonchalantly, "In your _dreams!" _

Upon the coldness of William Larkins' voice, Wobble's bouncing tail quickly reduced to a dangle, his glorious grin fainted, and he grew mute. He waited for more words or movements to come from the human, but when nothing came, with a dismal little whimper, the furry lowered his belly dejectedly onto the oaken floor and rested his chin on his stretched out paws, rubbing, lethargically, the tip of his nose against the ball.

Smirking, William Larkins rolled his eyes, wasted no time in turning his full attention back to the accounts.

For the next fifteen minutes, the bailiff buried his nose in the ledger, barred his senses from all distractions nearby, endeavouring to complete his work without further delay. And when he was finally finished, he surveyed the big book of ledger closed neatly in front of him, feeling satisfied with his day's work done. He was pleased that none of the tenants had postponed their rent payment – not that Mr Knightley would have scruples against any tenant who had to delay their payment for a month or two, but the kind-hearted master was always concerned about the wellbeing of his tenants, whenever a tenant could not make his rent, Mr Knightley would worry that his family had not enough to eat. That the period's rents were fully collected meant Mr Knightley needed not to be concerned, and as his bailiff, William Larkins felt that he had fulfilled his duty in serving his master.

The contended man proceeded to reward himself with a small smile and an arch of his old back, and the cracklings that came from him twisting his stiff neck was proof, to this man of Pride and Honour, that he had fully devoted himself, mind and body, to his sacred office.

For a brief moment, the old bailiff shut his eyelids to let his strained eyes rest, and when he opened them again, they were drawn, delightfully, to the inviting sun rare for December, and as he gradually trailed the alluring ray streaming through the glasses pane he had come to the spot on the floor, where he discovered, shockingly, that his master's dog, presently bathing in the warmth of the December sun, was pawing, vigorously, the rug beneath his finely coated frame.

Such sight instantly thrust William Larkins from his agreeable spirit into fury. At once, he cried aloud, "Keep your filthy paws_ away_ from the rug!"

Startled by the sudden outburst, Wobble jerked his head to the direction of the voice.

William Larkins had immediately gotten on his feet and ran near (or as near as he was willing to go) to the crime scene.

"Do not you _dare_ destroy another Donwell rug!" the man clamoured.

For a paltry moment, Wobble tilted his head with a curious and innocent face, but as the human had nothing other than his prickliness to offer, the beloved Donwell pet quickly turned his tenacity back to the rug.

"_You_..." the bailiff was appalled, "_Despicable... deplorable_ _beast!_ Stop your misdeed at _once!_"

But preoccupied Wobble continued to disregard the bailiff, digging his teeth into the fibre of the rug.

Indignant, William Larkins saw that his words had no consequence with the abominable scoundrel, he looked around alarmingly – not for anything to save his life, but for something that would save his master's rug!

His eyes darted through the library and laid, first, on the hearth behind the dog, one quick consideration at the iron rod by the fire he winced…

_Wretched! I could not hurt Mr Knightley's dog even if it were to save his rug – between the rug and the dog, there was no doubting in which he would choose!_

_What about... the armchairs by the hearth? Just the same!_

_The pillows on the armchairs then? No! Those expensive pillows, been in this ancient house as long as the rug!_

William Larkins turned to the right and saw the floor-to-ceiling book cases by the wall...

_Certainly NOT! Books were as important to Mr Knightley as his dogs!_

_What about the decanter on the sideboard? Wasting a perfect half bottle of port? You ought to be out of your mind, Old Man! _

The man kept searching for a suitable scheme to stop the incorrigible spaniel; his eyes had now flitted to Mr Knightley's writing desk.

_The paper? What good would it do, you idiot!_

_The inkwell? The ink would ruin the rug, Fool!_

_Now what?_

None of the schemes he had thus far would do, and the bailiff was growing desperate. But as he dragged his clammy hand over his distressed face, an object lying at the foot of the writing desk caught his attention...

_The BALL!_

William Larkins immediately ran to the desk and fetched the ball.

"Er... _you..." _the severe man called, waving the ball in his hand, hoping to distract the dog from the rug.

As if none of the man's words had gotten through his long fluffy ears, Wobble kept his furry head down, busily gnawing the thick woven fabric.

William Larkins was as anxious as he was vexed. He rolled the ball on the floor away from him, away from the spaniel and said, stiffly, "Look you... look _where_ the ball went..."

But, to his utter exasperation, he was ignored!

The sight of the dog mauling his master's rug was nauseating to William Larkins. To this fiercely loyal bailiff, his master's rug was _his_ rug; he could not bear it being ruined so senselessly, and in the absence of his master, who was there but _him_ to stop this dog!

The bailiff stared forbiddingly at the spaniel, anxiously contriving a new scheme – and finally…

_DAMN! _

Never had William Larkins thought that one day he would stoop this low, subjecting himself to such humiliation – _Never –_ had the proud man foreseen the day that he would be forced to do the disgraceful, the inconceivable, the deplorable act... of...of... coaxing a _dog_!

The man cursed several times under his breath while trudging over to where the ball had rolled and snatching it up.

"Hey, _you!_" he said grudgingly, "Want... want to play ball?"

He regretted his question as soon as he asked; nevertheless, when the spaniel continued to disregard his presence, the begrudged old man cleared his throat and whistled sharply.

The ear piercing sound did the very thing that he wanted it to do – Wobble paused, jerked his head to the direction of the noise.

"Wobble," it was the first time William Larkins had ever said the spaniel's name. "Want to play _ball?_" this time he said it with more conviction and less grouch.

A wide grin instantly moulded Wobble's jaw, followed by a feverishly wagging tail, and an enthusiastic woof.

"Leave the rug alone..." the bailiff's voice had never been this inviting, "let us go _outside… _and play _ball..."_

Not another entreaty was needed, Wobble leaped and skipped and bounced beside William Larkins all the way to the field.

* * *

After nearly fifty years of hating and fearing canines, playing ball with a dog, albeit a harmless one, was no easy feat to the Donwell bailiff. The first half hour William Larkins spent with Wobble was as rough as a post-boy on his horse before the turnpike roads! The man had not thrown a ball for nearly twenty eight years. The last time he threw a ball was with his son when the lad was three years old. In his thirties, the bailiff was as sturdy as a Donwell ox; several miles walk in a stretch could hardly break a sweat on him. But, now, in his fifties, albeit still well and stout, his youth had long passed, a longer walk had to be broken into stretches, his pace was much slower, and he heaved to catch his breaths. And to bend at his much thicker and rounder waist, not that it was impossible, but it now took considerably more effort.

Although playing ball with a dog was by no mean natural matter to William Larkins, the man had good reasons to throw the ball far and hard – it surely was not to please Wobble – but to keep the spaniel as far away and as long as he could from him!

Anyone who loved dogs could attest that canines were highly intelligent specie. Wobble could certainly sense the tensed nerves in William Larkins; after all, this was hardly new discovery for the clever dog, but for as long as the human was willing to be his companion, playful Wobble was happy. The furry skipped and hopped excitedly about his new playmate, ran after the flying ball with ears flapping all over place, and, before his new friend could count to twenty, he had fetched the ball back in his teeth, along with his grand smile and an insatiable appetite for more of the game.

Once William Larkins had overcome his initial intimidation and grudge against Wobble and against the childish game, without his own awareness, his tensed shoulders began to loosen, the tight muscles round his neck felt more fluid, his clenched jaws unclenched, and traces of small twitches were forming on his stony face. No doubt the bailiff would deny it furiously, but if one looked closer at him, one could discern the small twitches on the austere man's face resembled very much what an ordinary man would call – _smiles!_

Whether the twitches were truly smiles or just spasms on his face that he could not control, William Larkins found himself throwing the ball even harder and farther than previously – but it was no longer for his wish to keep Wobble as far away from him as he could – it was because there was a lightness in his heart that was slowly breaking down the hardness in him. As soon as Wobble fetched the ball to him, he would swing his arm in one direction only to turn his wrist to throw the ball in an entirely different direction to deceive the spaniel into following his arm. But, Wobble was no fool – wherever the ball went, he and his frenzied tail went with it, and he had never come back to his playmate with an empty mouth or an unsmiling jaw.

Another futile attempt to trick Wobble was carried out, but the clever spaniel flew off with exuberance after the ball.

Standing in the midst of the vast field, cradled tenderly by the last of the autumnal sun, feeling a levity that he seldom felt, William Larkins watched, fondly, Wobble bobbing up and down chasing after the ball in the field. The liveliness and the gaieties in the spaniel affected the old bailiff, and the warmth presently suffusing his heart had awakened a memory that he had long tried not to remember…

It seemed a lifetime ago when his beloved wife had died in labour giving birth to their second child, their stillborn child, and he was left, alone, with their two-year-old son. Rather than drowning himself in grief, the widower avowed to bring his only son up in the same way that his father had brought him up. The Larkins were no genteel stock, but they were good, hardworking people who earned their living with honesty. For three generations the Larkins had lived in Donwell, William Larkins' grandfather began serving the Knightleys in his youth, then his father, then him. Not only were the Knightleys genteel with land and wealth, they were kind, generous, and caring people. It was the Larkins family's longstanding pride and honour to be able to serve such superior family, and William Larkins had meant for his son to continue the legacy of the Larkins' name.

Ever since his son could walk, he had taken him to the fields to teach him all that he knew about cattle, sheep, crops, and soils. Nevertheless, anyone who knew Mr Larkins and his son would agree that his boy was the utter contrary of him. Unlike the father, who was a grownup in the making since he was two years of age, the son, at the same tender age, was as playful as a restless pup. The father was all strictness and astringent, yet, his son was full of spirit and mischiefs. In spite of how tight his father had griped his hand, like a little slippery toad, the lad always wiggled out of his father's hold when he was speaking to a labourer or a tenant. The boy had gone chasing – _again!_ – squirrels, robins, or anything that caught his eyes, and the father would apologize stiffly and hastened after him. William Larkins was an unaffected man, and he was never a doting father, his affection for those he loved, particularly his son, was always hidden deep in him. Outwardly, the father was embarrassed, vexed, and exasperated by his son's disobedience, yet deep inside, where his fatherly affection was safe with him, the sound of his boy's unruly giggles warmed him every time.

How many times had he watched his son running wildly in this very field when he was a little boy? Countless – it did not matter how long ago it was, the memory of those bygone years never left him.

Even a cold wind sweeping across the field could not break the old father from his reminiscence; he could almost see the broad toothily grins on his boy's face when he come running back to him from his chase and colliding into him… in the same way – presently – as Wobble had collided into him with the ball.

"Oh..." blurted the old man, blinking rapidly to bring himself out of his daze. Only then he realised that Wobble had banished the ball to the ground and was leaning and sniffing at him.

But surprisingly, the nearness of the spaniel did not frighten William Larkins, after his first recoil, a tender smile broke out of him.

He drew a breath, in a soft and curious voice, which completely lacked the sternness befitting his reputation, he asked, "Why are you sniffing at me?"

Wobble leaned even closer and poked his flat nose against William Larkins' side. Apparently, there was an object inside his coat pocket that interested the furry.

The bailiff was amused, "Why," with warm glints in his eyes, "with all your minced lamb and broiled potatoes! You could _not_ be serious?"

But Wobble was serious, and insistent! He kept his flat nose at William Larkins' side until he poked a rare chuckle out of the old man.

"Here, here…" said William Larkins, whose hand had reached into his coat pocket and produced the object of Wobble's pursuit.

A green turnip top!

Smiling, holding up the turnip top away from Wobble's reach, he said, "I had picked this up outside the cattle steading today, was going to put it in the field for the sheep…"

Now that the turnip top was out of it hiding place, the scent of it was driving the spaniel to fervency. Wobble could hardly wait for William Larkins to finish speaking.

_Woof! Woof!_

The eager spaniel was hopping and dancing round the old man.

In his much calmer state of mind, he remembered the command Mr Knightley and Miss Woodhouse used often.

"Sit," ordered William Larkins.

Wobble obeyed at once, sitting properly, and expectantly, in front of the old bailiff.

William Larkins was delighted – with the dog, as well as with himself!

"Come," he said and lowered the turnip top in perfect timing as Wobble came forward to receive the enticing treat with his smiling and salivating jaw.

* * *

The next several days, while Mr Knightley was still conducting business in London, Mrs Hodges slowly recovering from her dreadful cold, and traces of the Hartfield young mistress continued to be absent from Donwell Abbey, William Larkins and Wobble were left, most of the time, to their own accord at the ancient house. Though he would not go as far as admitting that his fear of canines was cured, the Donwell bailiff could not deny that his scruples for his master's pet had been renounced. Once his own hesitation for the spaniel disappeared, he found that Wobble was as friendly and affectionate as a young innocent boy.

For a man who was taught to live his life in stringency and seriousness in order to set an example for farm tenants and labourers and escape the misjudgement of others, William Larkins, for the first time in his life, felt safe to express himself in less rigid ways. As no one was near to see his affections on display, he allowed himself to be less strict and softer-hearted with Wobble, he smiled a little oftener, was a little less reserve, and had become a little more playful when alone with the dog. The old man was against indulgence of any kind, he was never indulgent of his own son (although in his reflections he had many a time wished he had been more indulgent of his son when he was with him), but he would allow himself to be a little indulgent of Wobble, bringing the spaniel fallen turnip tops by the side of the roads instead of carrying them to the fields for the sheep.

And Wobble, having no god and goddess of his own for the time being to subject his affections and adorations, welcomed, with open paws, the companionship and the complete change of heart of the human, who coexisted with him in the Abbey for the last eighteen months.

It was under such uncommon circumstance, where the Donwell bailiff and the Donwell pet were left alone, that the most unexpected, unobserved, unlikely friendship was formed between these two.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so much for your comments in the last chapter, and thank you for reading in spite of the lack of the main charaters! Emma will be back in the next chapter. :)_


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter Forty-Four**

For nearly three weeks, the young Hartfield mistress was the inmate of her own bedchamber because of the mumps. During this time, she had suffered slight pains, some swellings, a mild fever, and boughs of headaches, but none so very bad. Nevertheless, even under the many assurances of Mr Perry that Miss Woodhouse's illness was not severe, Mr Woodhouse's incessant worries simply could not be helped.

All windows at Hartfield must be shut, latched, and sealed, not even the ones in the servants' quarter could be left ajar, for draughts could seep through the crack at the foot of his daughter's chamber door, a cold atop her miserable plight would surely send her to her Heavenly home! No one, other than Mr Perry and those bringing meals and stirring the fire and removing garments and linens to be laundered, were allowed into his daughter's chamber; although his child was plagued with a contagious disease, servants could infect her with their hidden illnesses just as easily as they could catch her mumps. And most importantly, not until she was completely well, poor Emma must stay in her chamber, in her bed, under thick blankets, and wrapped in her warmest shawl!

With such unusually strict orders from her father, all Emma could do was to obey. Though the confinement was unbearable, the fifteen-year-old had endured the isolation with good spirit. She had written numerous loving missives delivered by Miss Taylor to her father, thanking him for his thoughtful orders to keep her in her chamber, assuring him with messages of hope that she was recovering resplendently behind closed door. She had followed the apothecary's order in drinking the disgusting elixir with only a cringe of the nose and without even an utterance of complaint every time. Yet, the young mistress dreaded her quarantine the moment it was announced, each night had passed like a year, each day a season, and each hour a month, little wonder when Mr Perry declared her free of the mumps, she could have sworn that had she been trapped in her room for one more day, she would surely be suffocated by the insufferable boredom!

On the first day she was allowed out of her chamber, Emma had devoted the entire morning sitting with her papa, speaking to him with cheerful animations, smiling tenderly at him while he took his gruel, and reading the advertiser pages to him with lively antics, all of which her father had missed so much. True to her nature of being a loving daughter, Emma was grateful that her father was no longer distressed by her plight, and was content to see his happiness in her presence. But as the afternoon drew near and the time of her father's nap grew close, the fifteen-year-old could not stop from looking at the time on her time piece. And when her father fell asleep in his armchair next to the hearth, the lass threw on her cloak and bonnet and flew out of Hartfield in unprecedented speed.

Since her quarantine, other than Mr Perry and Miss Taylor and couple of maids, Emma had scarcely seen a soul. Amongst those whom, besides her father, she missed the most were her grown-up friend Mr Knightley, who, as she had learnt from her father, was still in London tending his business affairs, and her dog Wobble, who, she reckoned, must be missing her as much as she was missing him. Now that she was freed from her prison and had made her father very happy, she could hardly wait to go to Donwell Abbey to see her dearly beloved pet.

Though the sun was distant, the air was cold, and the scenery was mostly brown, grey and barren, after what seemed an eternity of being shut away from the rest of the world, the mile walk to Donwell, even when beneath a dreary sky, was enchanting to the fifteen-year-old. There were no bird's chirpings as harmony to her jovial humming, nor the December sun peeping above to match the glow of her radiant face, and the butterflies, the ladybugs, and the frogs loved too much their hibernation to dance Emma's chasse steps with her (there was only her maid Kate's barely keeping up with her swift pace), nothing could dampen the plethora of joy from her regained freedom in the sweet lass's heart. And when she reached the Abbey, Emma was in such merry state of spirit that had it not been for decorum's sake, she would have embraced Mr Knightley's footman and housekeeper with alacrity at the entrance hall!

Harry and Mrs Hodges were overjoyed to see that Miss Emma was rid of the mumps, and the young mistress was grateful for their enthusiasm. As the two Donwell servants showered solicitudes and welcomes upon the beloved guest, a gale of exuberant barking careening through the corridors came dashing to the entrance hall. And before Emma had time to bend and open her arms, a frenzied spaniel had collided into her skirt.

"Oh, Wobble!" She immediately clasped the fur-ball to her bosom, and the Wobble lost no time in slobbering kisses on his goddess's pink cheeks.

"I have missed you _so_ _very_ much!" declared the mistress, rapt in the happiness of her dog's affection.

Ecstatic Wobble seemed unable to decide if he should be still to dwell in the arms of his goddess, or gambol into a blithesome dance to celebrate her return! At last, after a gale of thrilled barks he quickly returned to spreading wet tickles all over her.

Such scene of domestic felicity, even when it was between a young mistress and her dog, warmed Harry and Mrs Hodges's hearts. Unwilling to interrupt, the Donwell servants quietly took leave and left the beloved mistress and her affectionate pet to their joyful reunion.

The two spent some time playing and being together in the drawing room. While Emma recounted how she endured the unending boredom of her quarantine, Wobble draped his head and ears on her knee, listening to her with contented devotion. For a good quarter of an hour, the mixture of the young mistress's lovely giggles and the spaniel's cheerful barks filled and brought liveliness back to the quiet ancient house.

Emma had brought with her another doll for Wobble, it was an old doll that she mended during her confinement, and was about to present it to him when the clock began to chime. The fifteen-year-old remembered the significance of the time and was beginning to look for the object of the hour, but when she saw Wobble dash out of the drawing room, she quickly gathered her skirt and ran after him.

By the time she turned the first corner, Wobble had already vanished from her sight. As she followed the sound of his barks, Emma came to the threshold of the Donwell library, and she was mortified by the scene in the middle of the room.

Wobble, with a ball at his paws, was standing not two feet away from William Larkins, who presently had his hand held out in front of the dog.

_Mr Larkins must be terrified! _– Emma was absolutely certain – _He was trying desperately to shoo Wobble away! _

Anxious to save the poor man from fear and humiliation, she called aloud, instantly, from where she stood,

"Wobble – _SIT!"_

Both man and dog jerked their heads in the direction of Emma's voice.

Upon his mistress's decree, Wobble lowered his furry buttocks to the floor obediently.

It was different – however – with the bailiff.

Mouth opened, eye widened, hand frozen in the air – stunned by the suddenness of Miss Woodhouse's presence – it took William Larkins a moment to lower his hand and clasped stiffly to his side.

"I am _so_ very sorry, Mr Larkins!" Emma hurried to lead Wobble away from the bailiff, purposely stood herself in front of her spaniel to post as a shield for the man who feared canines all his life.

Apparently the astonishment continued to seize William Larkins, "Miss… Woodhouse… You… you have… come…" stammered he.

"I should not have let Wobble run out on me just now!" Emma imparted earnestly, "I am so very sorry for the way he ran into you, Mr Larkins!" regrets from more than a year ago when she taunted the poor bailiff with her puppy still fresh in her mind.

Slowly coming out of the startled state, William Larkins swallowed, "It… it does not signify… Miss Woodhouse…"

"Did Wobble frighten you, Mr Larkins?" more sincere solicitudes from the young mistress, "I am very sorry if he did!"

William Larkins shook his head stiffly, a rueful smile on his face.

The fifteen-year-old was relieved.

It was customary, at this point, where once Emma had ascertained that William Larkins was not hurt or frightened by her dog, she would quickly remove Wobble from his presence. But she was feeling particularly gregarious this afternoon, after all, three weeks of having only seen Mr Perry, Miss Taylor and a couple maids had the lively lass craving for other familiar faces – even when it was the austere face of Mr Knightley's bailiff! Besides, something quite unusual about the bailiff had caught her curiosity this instant.

The fifteen-year-old lingered where she was, pretending to have discovered a loose thread on the sleeve of her Spencer, tilted her head to examine the invisible fray on her coat, half wishing to give the bailiff time to start a tittle-tattle (albeit utterly unlikely), half observing his unusual countenance behind her long lashes...

Emma wondered why the bailiff's deportment was so different from the last she saw him. The last time when she and Wobble came into the Donwell library, she had thought that Mr Knightley was alone and allowed Wobble to run ahead of her. Then she was embarrassed to find that William Larkins was in the library as well. Needless to say, Mr Knightley was not pleased, for she had promised him to keep Wobble away from Mr Larkins whenever she was at the Abbey. Fortunately, Mr Knightley had intercepted Wobble as soon as he bounced into the library and prevented unnecessary fear befalling his bailiff, but she could not forget the harsh scowl the man gave her and her dog, the way his lips pinched into a sullen line, and the disapproval emanated from him that chilled her to the bone.

But oddly, the demeanour of William Larkins was entirely different today. Emma noticed that he had yet to meet her eyes since she came into the library, and his scornful expressions whenever he was in the same room, however seldom, with Wobble had changed – surely the bailiff looked thoroughly uneasy, but he was not scowling at her or her dog, and the light reflected from his eyes was not hostile… in fact… if one would ask her… Mr Larkins had a softened look about his face!

Emma's curiosity was veritably piqued; she quickly began looking for the cause of such surprising change in William Larkins.

Naturally, it did not take long for the imaginative fifteen-year-old to surmise what had transpired. Emma looked up from the invisible fray of her coat, her lively hazel eyes brightened, dimples twinkling her sweet crimson cheeks, a scheme was fast forming in her head, but she wished to be certain before embarking on it…

"Mr Larkins," she spoke to the bailiff, breaking the silence with caution.

"Erm… yes… Miss Woodhouse?" returned William Larkins, he sounded awkward to her.

"Are you certain, Mr Larkins," looking at him intently, "that Wobble did not frighten you?" she inquired.

"I… am… certain, Miss Woodhouse…" replied the bailiff.

Emma saw the small nod on William Larkins, and her brilliant smile instantly spread across her face.

"_Of course_ you were not frightened by Wobble!" the young mistress declared gloriously, feeling assured to go on.

"There is _nothing_ to be frightened of!" she said with animation, "I am so glad you agree with me, Mr Larkins!" then taking a step forward to the bailiff and leading her spaniel with her. "You have known Wobble for nearly a year and a half; he had _never_ harmed you in any way, he has _always_ been friendly with you. I dare say Wobble wants to become your friend, Mr Larkins!"

Emma immediately turned to speak to Wobble with an all-knowing smile, "You _wish_ to be Mr Larkins' friend, do not you, my dear boy?"

Without waiting for an answer from Wobble, Emma returned her attention to the person of interest.

"Mr Larkins," stepping aside, no longer standing between the man and her dog, "would you like to pat Wobble?" she asked with blooming hope.

William Larkins was taken by surprise, and Emma cared little that the bailiff looked reluctant – by the way that he did not run for a hiding place behind the heavy drapery or armchairs, she already had her answer –

_Of course he would be hesitant! It was only natural that he would be worried at first! _

"Come, Mr Larkins," the young mistress entreated. "You could start by patting his back."

"_Er…_ it… it is not necessary… Miss Woodhouse…"

The old bailiff looked quite discomposed.

_It must not be easy for him _– the fifteen-year-old felt she understood the bailiff perfectly –_ after all, he had hated dogs for most of his life!_

Then Emma decided that – _All Mr Larkins needed was a little encouragement!_

She prompted Wobble to take another step closer to the man.

"Wobble likes being patted on the back of his neck," the young mistress smiled confidently at the bailiff. "He is the friendliest creature you would ever know, Mr Larkins! He would never hurt you or any one. Just stand beside him and lift your hand like this and laid it gently on him…" eagerly, Emma demonstrated to William Larkins the way to pat her dog, while Wobble wagged his happy tail with a grin shinning up at them both.

"You see how friendly Wobble is, Mr Larkins?"

Though the bailiff continued to look uneasy, Emma would not give up. She kept entreating, "All you need is to take the first step, do not think of what had happened to you when you were a little boy, just remember Wobble would never hurt even as little as a squirrel; I _promise_ you that he would be gentle with you!

"Come, Mr Larkins, just one pat – that is _all_ I am asking!" the fifteen-year-old beckoned tirelessly.

At last, William Larkins seemed willing to try. Bending at his thick waist, he lifted his hand and smoothed the fine coat on Wobble's head, while the golden spaniel held, obediently, still.

It did not matter that Mr Larkins patted Wobble's head instead of the back of his neck as she had shown him – Emma was thrilled to pieces by the progress she made. All this time when she was trapped in her bedchamber for the mumps, she was bored to her ears, and she had felt utterly useless being unable to do anything other than sit, eat, and sleep.

She knew she was right when Mr Larkins seemed rid of his animosity toward Wobble, and it could only mean that he must be ready to learn to live harmoniously with dogs. What else could have brought the sudden change in this canine-loather? So many times she had felt sorry for him – how tiring it must have been to be consumed with hatred for lovely creatures as dogs! She knew it was a matter of time before the man would realize that his fear was entirely unnecessary and that he would be willing to change his mind.

She also knew that when it happened, it would not be easy on him – after all, William Larkins seemed as adverse to changes as her own father did, to take steps in reconciling with something he hated all his life must not be natural to him. She was pleased that she spotted his readiness to accept dogs when it happened. She _did_ possess a pair of keen eyes and an equally keen mind, did not she? And her perseverance must not go unnoticed – had she not been insistent with the reluctant man, he would not have the courage to take his first step – or first _pat_ she should say!

The fifteen-year-old could not help but draw a deep sigh of contentment. She was sure that what she felt presently must resemble to how a mother feel watching her child take his first step. She also could not help but congratulate herself for a job well done – Nay – a job _very _well done!

With pride swelling in her bosom, the young mistress stood there watching her dog lick the palm of Mr Knightley's bailiff, musing –

_Three weeks of boredom_ _and feeling of uselessness was insignificant when comparing to her present accomplishment: Curing a man of his lifelong fear of dogs!_

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so much for reading! :) And if you're wondering when Mr Knightley would return... He will be back in the next chapter! ;)_


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter Forty-Five**

Two days went by and brought Mr Knightley back to his domain. The Donwell Master had returned after more than a week of tending his business affairs in town. Upon setting foot in the Abbey, he and his bailiff spent nearly two hours in the library going over all that had happened in his absence.

The last order of business was the small leakage from one of the Donwell cottages discovered three days ago. It was the Cumming's, reported the bailiff, it was not particularly serious, but the layer of thatch had weathered, a new layer should be applied. The bailiff had already discussed the extent of the repairs with the thatcher and only needed his master's approval. The master gave his consent and asked to have the thatcher commence his work as soon as possible, for it was imperative that rain water be prevented from penetrating the structure of the cottage.

The bailiff respectfully took his master's order, but there was something else, not of business, he had in mind to ask.

"Mr Knightley," said William Larkins, "have you any objection of my taking a longer holiday during Christmas this year?"

Without the slightest hesitation, "Of course not, Larkins," supplied the master.

Though a little surprised, Mr Knightley certainly had not any objection to the request. William Larkins had rarely taken extended holidays. The last time the bailiff was away for a longer period of time was when he visited his cousin in Norfolk for a fortnight, and it was at least a handful of years ago. The master had often concerned that his aging bailiff worked too hard, and wished he would take more holidays other than the ordained Day of Rest.

Pleased to know that his loyal servant shall have some time for himself, Mr Knightley, smiling kindly, inquired, "Will you be visiting your cousin in Norfolk?"

William Larkins shook his head, "No, sir…" his eyes met Mr Knightley's curious gaze for a split second, his stony countenance wavered, he looked uneasy.

"It…" he hesitated for a moment, "It is my… son… he has written to inform me that he and his family shall be visiting at Christmas."

The smile on Mr Knightley faded, but it was not because of the intelligence. In all truthfulness, he was thrilled to hear that William Larkins' son shall be visiting his father with his family, but he knew his bailiff had avoided speaking of his son for years, and from the look on the man's face, he was certain that he still felt the same way.

Mr Knightley wished to know how long William Larkins' son and his family shall be staying; yet, he felt that he had already pried too much.

"You are welcomed to take as many holidays as you wish, Larkins," he said simply, but very kindly.

"Thank you, sir," replied William Larkins, feeling both grateful and relieved.

* * *

After quitting Mr Knightley at the library, William Larkins wandered about the Abbey for several more minutes. It seemed that since the day his master's spaniel had imposed on him to play ball with him, the old bailiff had formed this habit of seeking out his master's pet before he would leave his master's house.

"There you are," he said when he found lone Wobble in the drawing room nibbling on the new doll that Emma gave him two days ago.

Wobble immediately banished his new toy to bounce up to him.

The stiffness of William Larkins' face quickly loosened, a shadow of a smile was creeping up his wrinkled face.

"I see that you are _quite_ taken by the doll," he said, in a teasing tone that no human had ever heard from him before.

Two cheerful barks and a happily wagging tail told William Larkins that, perhaps between him and the doll, the spaniel might prefer him instead.

"I dare say" his eyes smiling, hand reaching into his coat pocket, "you would be even more taken by – _this!" _

His hand sprang from his pocket and held up high an enticing green turnip top, with quarter of the turnip still intact on it.

In half a second, Wobble was skipping and dancing and panting around him.

"Sit." No doubt that the bailiff had mastered the command.

With his flat black nose and unseeing eyes fixed at the source of the delicious scent, Wobble quickly sat down on the floor.

"Well done," praised the man, placing the turnip top at Wobble's paws, and Wobble immediately dove after it.

As Wobble relished the scrumptious treat, William Larkins stood there watching him, mind busily recounting what had taken place only few hours ago.

He had gone to the post-office before he came to the Abbey this morning, calm and composed like any other day, but when he saw that his son had written him a letter, the heart of this old father nearly jumped out of his chest. He was able to assuage the heavy poundings in him until he left the post-office and found a secluded corner to read the missive. The surprise, the joy, and the anxiety of knowing that he shall see his son in a se'nnight nearly ruined his senses. It had taken him the entire journey to Donwell Abbey to restore his mind to a more reasonable state.

The time he spent apprising Mr Knightley of the estate affairs half his mind was on the anticipation of his son's visit. But when it was time to ask for Mr Knightley's permission to take his holidays, in spite of how he wished to tell his master, and the world, that his son was, at long last, returning, he – his pride, his disappointment, his shame – once again had prevented him to speak.

For some inexplicable reasons, he had been finding comforts in Mr Knightley and Miss Woodhouse's dog. Gentle teasing, little jokes, open smiles, and a spectrum of emotions that he would never express in front of others, he found himself sharing unrestrainedly with Wobble. What he could not speak with any one for years, he now had this irrepressible desire to speak with the spaniel.

"Richard _is_ to come home!"

It was the first time since he collected the letter that he could speak freely of the unexpected news, the words practically burst from his mouth.

Wobble paused chewing the turnip top for a moment to look up at William Larkins. As if he understood the deep sentiment expressed and could see the tenderness and the elations flooding his human friend, a wide grin spread across his salivating jaw.

"He _is_ coming home to _me!_"

It did not matter that Wobble had returned his attention to the turnip top, the old father continued to reveal what had pent up in him.

"It has been _ten_ years to this day since he left…" His eyes moistened involuntarily by the thought of this day ten years past.

The delicious turnip top was now engulfed in his stomach; Wobbled had licked his jaw clean. He heard the sorrows in his human friend and settled down quietly next to him.

"He writes so rarely… and he never said he wished to return… I thought… " William Larkins gazed down at Wobble in sadness, "I thought he would not wish to have anything to do with me… that… he would never come back…"

The old father swiped a tear from his eye and quickly dug his hand in the pocket on his waistcoat, gingerly retrieving the letter he had safely, and carefully, tucked away before his meeting with Mr Knightley. He did not unfold it, needed not. He had read it so many times since this morning that he had memorised very word in it. Fearing the parchment might tear after being unfolded and folded so many times, just holding the letter in his hand was enough to dispel his loneliness and warm his heart.

With his spirit uplifted, he saw Wobble looking up at him; he bent to rub his furry friend's head.

"You frown!" he said to the dog with twinkles in his eyes, "Why," a hopeful smile emerged on his face, "you disagree with me, do not you?

"I think you are _quite_ a clever dog," the old man's smile grew bigger and wider and livelier with anticipation. "My son _is _coming home! He _is_ to come back with his wife _and_ their children – _my grandchildren!"_

He glided his hand down Wobble's flappy ear, and Wobble shifted to lick his palm. The spaniel's wet tongue was tickling him to chortles. And when Wobble stopped licking to give him a merry bark, his chortles turned into an ear to ear grin.

"You think I ought to go?" William Larkins was certain that Wobble had read his mind.

"There is much to prepare!" he went into contemplation. "I must ask Mrs Barton to fix up Richard's room for him and his wife, but..." he paused, slowly unbending, "What shall we to do with the children?

"Richard's room is far too small for him and his wife _and_ their children… Perhaps they could have my room?" William Larkins considered, seemingly seeking advice from the spaniel.

"Of course I shall have to move into Richard's old room… Do you think a child's bed would fit next to my bed?" he asked Wobble. "Or should I sleep in the sitting room and let the children have my room? The straw bed would do for me… the table and chairs will need to be moved aside… closer to the window… only at night…"

It was very seldom that the incomparable bailiff was distracted, but presently, the rearrangement of furniture was all that was on his mind.

_Woof! Woof! _

"W-What..." he answered absently, head still full of living rearrangements, "I… I should… be… going?"

_Woof!_

"You are wise, I _ought_ to be going!" he hurried to turn to leave the drawing room.

"But… " he turned back and looked at Wobble, "where... where to?" his face coloured. He had forgotten the order from his master, and he had _never_ forgotten any order from his master!

_Woooof!_

"Oh, yes!" rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, the old bailiff drew a sigh of relief. "The _thatcher's_," he said to himself, "I ought to go to the thatcher's first!" and chuckled all the way out of the drawing room.

* * *

Half an hour after William Larkins left the Abbey, Emma arrived. She was informed by the footman that Mr Knightley had returned and went directly to the library to him.

Before she had reached the library threshold, Wobble had detected her presence and raced to greet her. And when the gentleman saw his young friend; he arose behind the writing desk,

"Emma," delighted to see her, "I have meant to call on you and your father as soon as I reply these letters."

"Thank you, Mr Knightley," the lively fifteen-year-old curtsied, just as delighted to see her grown-up friend, "it is very kind of you!"

"How are you, Emma?" he asked as he walked towards her, "Are you rid of the mumps?"

Emma smiled grandly, "Oh yes, every bit of the dreadful disease!"

He was now by her side, alongside their mutual worshiper Wobble. "Let me take a look at you," the gentleman's eyes dancing with mischief, "I need to make certain that you are indeed mended and will not spread the disease to anyone at the Abbey or Donwell," he teased.

The young lady laughed, she had missed her grown-up friend, the easy bantering between them, and was eager to show him that she was completely mended, good as new.

"Humph…" with mock seriousness, the Donwell Master examined his young friend as she turned her head from side to side.

"Well done, Emma," he grinned. "I see that not only you are entirely rid of the mumps, you have _not_ been bored out of your mind after three weeks of being confined in your room!"

"_Nearly, _Mr Knightley!" she declared with animation. "I was _nearly _bored out of my mind! I do not think I could have lived one more day being imprisoned in my own chamber."

"Then congratulations are in order," the gentleman said playfully, "on your complete recovery _and _on finally being set free," bestowing a bow upon his young friend.

Emma laughed and gave Mr Knightley a theatrical curtsy for the felicitation, but she could hardly wait to speak with him regarding what had been on her mind for the past two days.

"Mr Knightley," she said, "have you spoken with Mr Larkins since you returned?"

"Yes, indeed. I would have been at Hartfield by now had not Larkins and I were in a meeting for nearly two hours."

"Then…" Emma's heart was leaping with joy, "you and Mr Larkins must have discussed _many_ matters?"

"Having been gone for ten days, several matters indeed needed my attention."

"And what could _those _matters be?" she asked with great anticipation, certain that one of the matters must be the enormous service she had done for his bailiff.

Mr Knightley thought Emma's question a little strange. "Why, Emma, do not you wish to hear about Isabella and the children?"

"Oh, I always wish to hear first about Isabella and the children," said she, with an easy smile. "But Isabella had written to me only yesterday and told me all about Henry cutting his first molar, and little John, just the day before, had pulled himself up to stand while holding a toy in one hand; and Isabella, of course, could not wait to come home in a few days. You see, I know all about Isabella and the children already, which was why I thought I should be concerned about _your _Donwell affairs for a change!"

"That is thoughtful of you," said Mr Knightley.

But the gentleman was not convinced. Surely Emma had always an interest in the well-being of the Donwell estate and parish, but she had never taken more interest in the matters discussed between him and his bailiff than the tiniest news of her dearest sister since Isabella married John and her beloved nephews since she became their aunt. Some unnamed intention, Mr Knightley reckoned, must be on her mind.

"May I ask which aspect of the discussions between Larkins and I most interest you, Emma?" asked he.

The fifteen-year-old thought her friend quite clever, but she would not expect anything differently from him. After all, Mr Knightley, unlike her father, did not often shower her with praises. Instead of thanking her openly for the great service she had done for his bailiff, he would, she mused, prefer to play this game of hide-and-seek with her.

"Oh, nothing in particular," she said nonchalantly, willing to play along with his game.

"Nothing," the gentleman cocked an eyebrow, "_Really?"_

"Really," Emma said flatly.

She had caught the cautionary note in his voice and was sure that he meant to drag his game on. Nevertheless, the young lady might be clever, but she had the patience of a two-year-old, particularly when it came to extricating accolades from her superior friend.

"Well…" she decided to expedite the game,"s_ince _you asked!" looking unabashedly into Mr Knightley's eyes, "I was thinking if one of your matters involved a _certain _dog…" she thought she had left him no choice but to concede.

"A _dog_…" Mr Knightley went into contemplation.

"Ah," he smiled, "you must be speaking of the terrier of Mr Makepeace. The Foyers had raised a dispute with Larkins over Makepeace's terrier trampling and eating their turnips. It was caused by the dubious bound between the parcels of land of the two tenants. Larkins shall be marking them out properly in a day or two."

Disappointed, Emma protested, "But that is _not_ the dog I was thinking of!"

Nevertheless, she soon gathered, "You are _quite _incorrigible, Mr Knightley," giving him a knowing smile, "insisting on playing this game with me!"

"_Game?" _the gentleman frowned.

"Yes – _Game_!" Shaking her head, she placed both hands on her hips, "You would rather speak in riddles than thank me for the great service I have done for Mr Larkins!"

"Service to – _Larkins_?"

"_Great _service to _your_ bailiff!"

Mr Knightley's curiosity was piqued.

"What kind of service have you done for Larkins, Emma?"

The young lady thought her friend an excellent actor; she was beginning to feel annoyed. "Why must you insist on pretending that you know nothing of what I had done for Mr Larkins?"

"That is because I know_ nothing_ of what you had done for Larkins, Emma!"

"But you two were meeting for nearly _two_ hours, surely Mr Larkins must have spoken to you about my curing of his fear of dogs!"

Mr Knightley was surprised, "_You?" _gaping at her, "_Curing_ Larkins' fear of dogs?"

"_Yes, indeed!_" gloated the young mistress.

"How, Emma?" asked the gentleman.

"Well," no longer feeling annoyed, Emma at once grew animated, "I never thought it would be _that_ simple, Mr Knightley! But when I saw the opportunity, I said to myself that I must _not_ let it slip away! So I took Mr Larkins' hand," she checked herself, "I mean guided – I _guided_ Mr Larkins to pat Wobble. Sure enough," she was even more animated now, "Wobble was taken to him immediately – because that is _just_ the kind of dog Wobble is: Loving and Friendly!

"And," with abundant smugness, "it is my _greatest_ pleasure" she announced, "to inform you that Mr Larkins is no longer afraid of canines since that moment, because – _I –_ have cured his fear of dogs!"

"That cannot be, Emma," succeeded Mr Knightley thoughtfully. "A man who has had a fear for canines all his life does not become cured by having someone merely guided him to pat a dog."

Emma could not believe what she just heard, her jaw dropped.

"_Of course_ it can be!" she insisted, her annoyance returned. "You would not admit it because you are unwilling to give me the praise I deserve! Surely Mr Larkins must have told you how friendly he had been with Wobble!"

"Yes, Emma, I have heard that Larkins had been very friendly with Wobble, but I did not hear it from Larkins himself. It was Mrs Hodges who told me that he had become quite friendly with Wobble since the day after I left for London."

"That is _impossible_!" Emma flustered. "It was only two days ago that I persuaded Mr Larkins to pat Wobble! How could he have been friendly with Wobble since the day after you left for town?"

"This is why whatever reason Larkins is no longer afraid of Wobble could not have been your doing."

Emma's face, at this point, had turned scarlet. She felt indignant. Questions began clamouring in her head.

"If… if Mr Larkins was no longer afraid of Wobble, then why… why did not he tell me when I asked if he wished to pat Wobble?"

"What was his answer when you asked?" Mr Knightley inquired.

"He… he did not answer… he shook his head!" she recalled from two days ago. "But if he was friendly with Wobble before I asked… why did he refuse to pat him?"

"Perhaps he did not wish you to know that he had been friendly with Wobble," supplied Mr Knightley.

"This makes _no_ sense!" Emma returned hotly. "Why would not he wish me to know? He told Mrs Hodges, did he not? Why did he not tell _me_?" demanded she.

"Larkins did not tell Mrs Hodges, Emma, Mrs Hodges had discovered it herself – she was suffering from a dreadful cold while I was away, unable to assume her daily responsibilities for nearly a week. The day after I left, Larkins offered to look after Wobble for her, and after she recovered from her cold her observations confirmed that Larkins and Wobble had become friends."

The fifteen-year-old shook her head, unwilling to believe her friend.

"Emma," Mr Knightley continued, "William Larkins had begrudged canines all his life. He must have realized that he had not been civil with Wobble since he was brought into the Abbey. Now that he knows Wobble is a very friendly creature, perhaps he feels guilty for treating him with so much disdain for the last year and a half."

"If it_ is_ as you said, then it makes _all_ the more sense for him to tell me that he no long despises Wobble!"

"Remember, Emma – Wobble is your dog. It is likely that William Larkins feels embarrassed for not paying the respect due you for loathing your dog all this time."

Still refusing to listen to Mr Knightley's reasons, the young mistress looked aghast. "Did _he_ think that I would be _so_ blind that I could not even comprehend his dislike for my dog was caused by his childhood tragedy?" she rebuffed.

"This has nothing to do with you but everything to do with who William Larkins is. William Larkins is a very private man, it is difficult for him to reveal himself to any person, particularly in situations where he feels embarrassed or ashamed," explained the voice of reason. "Do not you think your reaction unreasonable, Emma?"

"Surely not!" replied the fifteen-year-old. "He _should_ have told me before I made a _fool_ of myself! _All _this time I thought I had done him a _great_ service while he was feigning innocence with me! Upon my word," declared she vehemently, "he had been _laughing_ at my foolishness for the last two days!"

Mr Knightley took a deep breath; at times trying to talk sense into his stubborn friend was like talking to a rock.

"I can assure you, Emma," he said, "that William Larkins had no intention of ever making a fool of or laughing at you!"

The young lady wished, in return, to assure the gentleman that his bailiff had _every_ intention to deceive and make a fool of her, but she was unwilling to trust what might come out of her mouth had she allowed herself to speak. She felt so humiliated presently that she wished she had never spoken to the Donwell bailiff two days ago.

Clutching Wobble to her bosom, Emma stamped off, far away from Mr Knightley, to one of the armchairs in the library and sank into it with a thoroughly sullen pout.

* * *

After more attempts to reason with Emma went in vain, Mr Knightley had returned to the writing desk. While he was finishing his letters, he heard a cough and some grumblings from Emma, but when he looked up, she and Wobble were no longer in sight. He thought that she had gone to the garden with Wobble for a walk, and was hopeful that the cold air would clear her mind, setting her on more reasonable path.

Several minutes later, he heard her familiar footfall returning to the library. He looked up, smiling,

"Do you feel better now, Emma?" he asked.

But the young lady ignored his inquiry. "Mr Knightley," she spoke, with the seriousness of someone who was on a mission, "you _must _not allow Mr Larkins to come near Wobble."

The smile on Mr Knightley fell. "I beg your pardon?" he returned immediately.

"You must _not_ allow Mr Larkins to come near Wobble!_"_ she repeated with even more determination.

"I heard what you said, Emma," said Mr Knightley, "but – _Why?"_

A formidable crease formed between the young mistress's brows, "Because _he_ is harming Wobble!"

Mr Knightley found it difficult to believe, he looked straight into Emma's eyes and asked, "In what ways?"

The colour on Emma's face suddenly rose, her determined manner faded, and she seemed unable to speak. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then reopening it, only to close it again. For several moments, she was staring, helplessly, at Mr Knightley.

Mr Knightley waited very curiously. He could tell she was desperate to say something, but was surprised to see how tongue-tied she was.

"Mr… Larkins…" she began with difficulties, "He has been…" shaking her head at herself, seemingly searching for words, "Er… Wobble… he… he…" the colour on her cheeks was deepening rapidly; she really could not go on.

Mr Knightley's eyes held Emma's beckoningly, "What about William Larkins and Wobble, Emma? What are you trying to say?"

Emma's gaze then travelled down to Wobble, who was sitting merrily by her feet. Staring at her spaniel, she muttered, "It… it… it…"

"It _what_, Emma?" the gentleman begged.

Emma looked anxiously up at him, endeavouring to continue, "It… it… it is…" she faltered.

"It – _what_, Emma?" he begged again.

Then, gulping down a breath, "It is – _indelicate_!" she blurted with a wince.

Perplexed, "_Indelicate…"_ Mr Knightley repeated.

The young lady nodded quickly to ascent.

"_Indelicate_… " the gentleman repeated again, all at sea.

Emma's cheeks were now scarlet. Judging from the bewildered expression on Mr Knightley, she knew he had not an inkling of what she meant. She stamped one foot in frustration, gathered up Wobble from the floor, placing her beloved dog into Mr Knightley's arms and said, "Smell it for _yourself!_"

The baffled gentleman stood there holding the spaniel awkwardly, not understanding at all the young lady's meaning, yet, following her order nonetheless. He lifted Wobble closer and began sniffing at him (suffice to say that Wobble was doing the same to him). Still at a loss, he was about to tell Emma that he could not detect anything unusual about their dog, but no sooner had he opened his mouth to speak than an unbecoming noise slowly oozed out of grinning Wobble, which was followed by a far more unbecoming scent.

Emma anticipated what was coming and pinched her nose with her fingers in the nick of time. But Mr Knightley had not expected the unexpected and was caught veritably off guard. The awful scent quickly travelled through the air, with no hands to cover his nostrils, the gentleman was rendered defenceless.

He stifled his breath until the dreadful scent barely lingered. Blinking, cringing, half recovering from Wobble's potent attack, "So…" clearing his throat, composing himself, "Wobble is… er… a little… windy…" said Mr Knightley, ruefully.

"A little _windy?" _cried Emma, astonished. "_A – little – windy! _Is your nose in order, Mr Knightley?"

"A warning would have been better, Emma! My nose, I thank you, is in _very_ good order this afternoon!" exasperated the gentleman. "However, what does this have to do with William Larkins?" he asked.

_"What does this have to do with Mr Larkins?" _Emma continued to look dismayed.

If Wobble's indelicacy were not so nauseating, and he not so keen on finding out Emma's meaning of what just happened, the gentleman would have found his young friend keep repeating what he said amusing.

"Yes, Emma," he answered, not the least amused, "what does it have to do with William Larkins?"

"Mrs Hodges told me that Mr Larkins has been feeding Wobble turnip tops!" Emma supplied, with passion.

"But dogs eat turnips, carrots, sweet potatoes, apples, or whatever they could sink their teeth in all the time," argued the gentleman.

"Yes, other dogs do, but _not _my Wobble!" riposted the young lady. "Wobble is accustomed to pulped potatoes and minced lamb, fodders for cattle and sheep are unsuitable for him!"

"And _this_ is the reason why you wished me to keep Larkins away from Wobble?" ascertained the gentleman, "Because he feeds Wobble turnip tops?"

"Yes!" declared the fifteen-year-old.

"This is _absurd_, Emma!" retorted Mr Knightley. "It had taken William Larkins most his life to become friendly with any canine, to keep him away from Wobble would damper his progress, and possibly cause him to regress to his previous state!"

"But he is _harming_ Wobble, causing his poor digestion!"

"Wobble may be a little… er… windy," the gentleman stifled a wince," but his digestion is fine, Emma."

"No, Wobble is _not_ fine!" insisted the fifteen-year-old. "Upon my word, he has _poor_ digestion!"

"You are sounding like your father, Emma!"

"Then it just makes me _right_! Because my Papa _knows_ poor digestion!" proclaimed the young lady, crossly folding her arms.

"Well then, I shall advise Larkins to stop feeding Wobble turnip tops," offered the gentleman, willing to appease his young friend.

But Emma immediately dissented, "That would _not_ do! It does not matter if Mr Larkins stops feeding Wobble turnip tops – I do not wish him to come near Wobble _again_!"

At this point, Mr Knightley had surmised that Emma's scruple had less to do with Wobble's indigestion than her grudge against William Larkins. He wished he could convince her that his bailiff would never intentionally injure her pride, but he knew too well that once Emma had set her stubbornness in motion, nothing could convince her to believe otherwise

Wishing for an answer, "Mr Knightley," the fifteen-year-old stared unyieldingly up at him, "would you _promise_ me that you would keep Mr Larkins away from Wobble?"

Standing his ground, "Emma," Mr Knightley answered, "other things I might be able to promise you, but this I could not. It would be most inconsiderate of me to _both_ you and William Larkins to abide by your request!"

"If you would not do it," abruptly removing Wobble from Mr Knightley, "then – _I –_ would!" determined the wilful youth.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for reading! :-)_


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter Forty-Six**

It was three days before Christmas; the season's delightful excitement pervaded the vicinities of Highbury and Donwell. Preparations to celebrate the reunions of friends and kindred bustled in every household. The grocers', the butchers', and the fruiterers' shops were thronged with villagers procuring games, poultry, and other luxuries for their festive tables. Stagecoaches and mail-coaches were crowded with passengers (and hampers of games, and baskets and boxes of delicacies), bounding to the mansions and cottages of friends and distant relations or returning home to the family's Christmas feast.

To most, it was the merriest time of the year, but to the old father and young daughter at Hartfield, it was a particularly precious time. Though the first in consequence in Highbury, the Woodhouses was but a very small family. Since Isabella had removed after she wed, Christmas was one of the few occasions that brought the beloved eldest daughter back to the old father, and the dearly adored older sister to the fifteen-year-old. And the additions of two adorable little grandsons and nephews had only increased, in innumerable folds, the pleasure of the reunion.

Isabella, the children, and their maids had arrived two days ago, John, however, would not be joining his family until the day before Christmas. It was decided that the family would be staying at Hartfield this holiday. Albeit it was Mr Knightley's turn to claim his brother's family at Donwell Abbey, thanks to the very persuasive fifteen-year-old, the gentleman had agreed, very generously, to postpone, once again, the right to his claims.

It pleased Isabella no end that she could be with her father and sister at her childhood home, and Mr Woodhouse was above contentment of the greatest measure to spend all his waking hours – which did not amount to much, as the old man who generally slept poorly at night, must take rests both in the morning and afternoon to keep his passable health – in the company of his beloved daughters and two grandchildren.

After waiting for months on end for the visit of his eldest daughter, the old father, now leaning comfortably against the plush back of his armchair in front of the hearth, had the pleasure of having his icy fingers wrapped in the warmth of his Isabella's soft hands, gazing gratefully at the tender smile that graced her pretty face, and listening indulgingly to her endless solicitudes over his smallest, most insignificant, often unnoticed maladies.

With constitution so much like his own, Isabella had had delicate health since she was an infant, and the father had always a particular anxiety for his eldest child. From infancy to girlhood to she was grown and out of the schoolroom, Mr Woodhouse had fretted over every ailment that she had, from the tiniest of sniffles to coughs that made her sound like a horse. Not long after Isabella married John Knightley, news of her expecting child was broken to him. Mr Woodhouse nearly tore up his clothes to begin mourning for the loss of his daughter to the evil fate of childbirth. But to the fearful father's greatest relief, Isabella not only survived the laborious ordeal giving birth to a stout, handsome baby, she and John had named their firstborn after him, a very pretty gesture that nearly caused the old father to forgive his son-in-law for carrying off his daughter away from him.

Then, before baby Henry was even one year of age, news of Isabella expecting another child was broken, again, to Mr Woodhouse. The nervous father was sure that odds would be decidedly against his child, and he blamed his son-in-law for ruining her. How could a husband be so indifferent of his wife's wellbeing? How could John Knightley so thoughtlessly put his Isabella in harm's way again so soon?

But life seemed full of surprises – Isabella succeeded at another safe deliverance of a healthy baby, and the anxious father was eternally grateful to the Gracious Almighty. Nevertheless, Mr Woodhouse worried that rearing two boys in town would be great hardship on his Isabella, after all, a town like London, filled with stench and filth, had to be dreadful for mothers and children, it must not have maids who were as good-natured as the ones here at home, and ten town doctors could not compare to one Mr Perry of Highbury, who had the exceptional skills and endless patience to tend his fastidious needs! Hence, the old father, while listening to the sweet voice of his Isabella speaking of concerns for him, kept searching for signs of fatigue and illnesses on her.

Yet – to Mr Woodhouse's pleasantest amazement – presently the cheeks on Isabella were glowing brilliantly, almost could rival the glory of his beloved hearth; her eyes, her tender kind eyes, were shining so brightly that he could have mistaken them for the dancing sparkles crackling in the burning wood; and her smiles, her beautiful smiles, were emitting such radiance that he could feel their warmth from the top of his head down to his stockinged toes.

_Motherhood –_ the old father mused with a rippling smile – _must be kind to my precious child!_

Sitting not far from Mr Woodhouse and Isabella, was fifteen-year-old Emma, who had taken up, with supreme eagerness and joy, the role of nursery maid to her two little nephews, Henry and baby John.

Nine-month-old John was perching smugly on the knees of his aunt, whose hands had settled securely about his upper person, and her knees pretended to be a jolly horse, bounding and swaying the little equestrian, affecting the most adorable guffaws out of the baby.

Now, Aunt Emma's giggles were no less adorable than baby John's. Whereas the baby was chuckling over the tickling sensation from the jostles, the aunt was tickled to high glee by the laughter trilling from the baby's belly, the dimples that jiggled his round ruddy cheeks, the two thick-lashed crescents affixed beneath his feathery brows, and the puddle of drool that smothered all over his chin.

And as for baby John's older brother Henry, little Henry was at his aunt's elbow. The nearly-two-year-old loved his younger sibling excessively, had generously let John ride the horse before he did. But as he stood next to his aunt and baby brother, witnessing their merriment booming before him, the youngster was growing impatient and began tugging at his aunt's wrist.

"My turn, Aunt Emma, my turn!" pleaded little Henry.

Bringing the horse to a crawl, "Yes Henry," Emma turned to smile at Henry, "you have been so patient! It is _indeed_ your turn!"

Reigning in her imaginary mare, the playful aunt brought the gentle creature (her knees) to a halt. Before lowering her baby nephew to the floor, she smacked a sound kiss on the part of his face which was untouched by his happy drool. After ascertaining that baby John's tiny fists were holding steadily to the edge of the sofa and his ten plump toes securely gripping the oaken floor, Emma turned to the other side for her older, yet equally lovable, nephew.

Little Henry was ready to be mounted onto the horse, his arms eagerly stretched out for his aunt, awaiting the ride that thrilled his baby brother to squeals.

The horse had begun with a gentle stroll, but as Henry was a full year older than John, and she was in no danger of being seen by others beside her father and sister for her unladylike vivaciousness, fifteen-year-old Emma quickly brought the mare from walking to trotting, bobbing and bouncing and jumping over imaginary tree branches. Henry was having as capital a time as his baby brother John.

Mr Woodhouse and Isabella, while cherishing each other's company, were caught by the joviality so near them.

One look casted upon the scene, albeit very delightful and amusing, had set Mr Woodhouse to worries immediately.

"Oh, take care, Emma my dear!" he said nervously. "Henry might fall off your knee!"

The fifteen-year-old had just steered the mare around the corner of a narrow path when she heard her father's gentle remonstration.

Without taking her eyes off the rider, "Have no fear, Papa," Emma assured with confidence, "Henry is safe in my hold – Not even a _hair_ could fall from him!"

No sooner had she finished her speech than the mare leaped over more invisible branches.

By this time, both the equestrian and his aunt were so rapt by gaiety that the aunt began to make horse's sounds. But, either little Henry could not tell dog's howls from horse's neighs, or Emma had failed miserably at her antics,

"_Wobble! Wobble!"_ cried the nearly-two-year-old cheerfully, overlapping the sounds made by his aunt.

Giggling, "Did I not sound like a horse, Henry?" asked Aunt Emma.

Her inquiry was answered with a great big smile by the little chap.

Wishing for an improved reply, Aunt Emma tried her horse's neighs once more.

But, "_Wobble! Wobble!"_ little Henry squealed, again, in glee.

Unashamed by her failed antics, Emma burst into reverberating laughter – at Henry's innocent insistence, as well as at her own pathetic attempts to sound like a horse!

Curiosity had begotten Mr Woodhouse, amidst the hilarity he asked, "What is it that Henry is speaking of,Emma my dear? What is… er… _wobble,_ my dear?"

Emma heard her father, she turned her watering eyes to him, but her uncontrollable laughter rendered her unable to speak.

Grateful for her younger sister's affection for her two sons, while taking baby John up to her knees, the loving older sister Isabella had come to her sister's rescue (or so she thought) with the most endearing smile, "Henry is calling out for Emma's dog, Wobble, Father!"

Instantly, Emma drew a breath, her eyes widening, she shook her head hurriedly at Isabella.

Emma's shocked gaze just reminded Isabella of something she had forgotten: _Father had no knowledge of Emma keeping a dog!_

She flushed, "Oh dear…" wishing she could take back her words.

Surprised by the intelligence, "_Oh!_" yelped Mr Woodhouse. "You have a – _dog? Emma_?"

The jolly horse with Henry on it had slowed down to a crawl.

"_Er… Papa… I_…" muttered the fifteen-year-old.

Clasping baby John to her bosom, Isabella confessed quietly, "I am _so sorry_, Emma!"

Emma saw Isabella's guilt ridden eyes begging her forgiveness, and she could not bear to give her dear sister pain. Feeling her father's eyes searching steadily on her, the fifteen-year-old considered the situation and realised that perhaps after a year and a half of harbouring a secret from her papa, it was high time that she should, as Mr Knightley had often urged her, make a clean breast of it.

She brought the horse to a halt, lowered Henry gently to the floor, allowing him to go back to his mama. She gave Isabella a reassuring smile (or as reassuring as she could muster), then, taking a deep breath to summon her courage,

"Papa," she looked into her father's eyes, quite shamefully, yet determinedly, confessing, "I _indeed _have a dog!"

Mr Woodhouse's brows furrowed.

Though a man of amicable spirit, Mr Woodhouse had disliked animals all his life, if not for their unbecoming stenches, it was for the mud that perpetually smeared on them. The gentleman owned that cattle, sheep, swine, and poultry, were important fabric of the English economy, however, as he was not keen on matters of farming, and the wealth of the Woodhouses had accumulated through investments of other sorts, he had not the fondness for animals that Mr Knightley or other farmers possessed.

As for his own daughter possessing a dog, a reasonable father would likely find no objection to such notion, nevertheless, Mr Woodhouse, an excessively doting parent, found it difficult to reconcile to the thought. When he was a child living at his aunt's house, his ruffian cousin had a bloodhound for a pet, with which he used to browbeat the younger ones and his servants. Though it had never hurt him, the bloodhound had certainly terrified young Henry Woodhouse. Then one day, on his way to the schoolroom for his lessons, he heard his cousin's screaming and crying, he walked near the parlour where the agony had come from and peered into it to discover that the Hector was squirming and hollering and scratching his own skin out. But as soon as his aunt began to, with the help of two servants holding down her son, undress the writher, young Henry walked away immediately – for gentlemen would not spy others undressing, even when it was his tyrannising cousin!

It was not until that evening, when he walked near the kitchen looking for someone to bring him his nightly gruel, which the servants had a habit of forgetting, that he overheard the cook and one of the servants who held down his cousin for his aunt, sneering and snickering and basking in the joy of detailing their tyrant young master suffering from flea infestation. The pesky bloodsuckers, according to the servant, had come from their young master's bloodhound, which the boy had stupidly allowed to mingle with mongrels and stray dogs in the village, and, as the boy often acted more like an animal than human, rolling and wrestling with his ferocious Trojan, it was little wonder that he would get himself into the scrape. The brat, scoffed both the cook and the servant, _deserved_ every bit of that painful itch!

Though young Henry felt sorry for his cousin, he could not deny himself sharing part of the joy that the servants felt. But since that day, he had acquired both awe and fear for the bloodsucking insect – for those infinitesimal creatures, which had strength to bring a giant of a tormentor as his cousin to tears, must not be a force to reckon with!

Even after all these years, the image of his cousin's suffering still shuddered Mr Woodhouse.

"Dogs have _fleas_, Emma my dear!" he grimaced, blurting out his fear.

"But not my dog, Papa!" Emma quickly supplied.

"I had seen how my cousin suffered when he infested the fleas from his hound; it is not _at all_ the thing that you wish to temper with, my dear!"

"But, Papa, my dog is very well-groomed _and_ clean!" expostulated the fifteen-year-old. "I do not allow him to mingle with dogs of unknown origin, nor do I let him play with those that are unclean! Pray, believe me, Papa, my dog does not have fleas!"

"How could you be so certain, Emma my dear?" asked the very anxious Mr Woodhouse.

"Because Mrs Hodges inspects him for fleas nearly every day, she had never found a _single_ flea on him, Papa!"

Emma had no doubt that if there were a prize for the cleanest dog in England, Wobble would be the one to win it. She understood her papa's dislike for animals, particularly dogs, but she wished he would grant her Wobble an exception.

She was looking pleadingly at her father. For a moment, he was quiet, she could tell anxiety had overset his inner peace, but from the look of his contemplative gazes, he seemed willing to consider her reassurance.

Isabella had noticed the same in Mr Woodhouse. The loving older sister continued to be penitent of her mistake and wished very much to make amend for her younger sister.

"Father," she broke her silence, "Emma's dog is _indeed_ the best groomed dog I have ever seen! Mrs Hodges follows every order that Emma gives her in taking care of him. He is so clean that I even allow Henry and John to play with him!"

"You _do!"_ Mr Woodhouse was scandalised. "Dogs have _fleas_! And they _bite, _Isabella my dear!"

"Dear Father, pray, do not worry!" Isabella implored. "I could assure you that Emma's dog does not have those dreadful creatures…"

"And he does _not_ bite!" Emma could not help but interpose.

"Not at all," assented Isabella. "He is a _very_ gentle dog, Father! The boys are excessively fond of him!"

"_And_" now it was Emma's turn, "I daresay _you_ would too, Papa! _Everyone_ who comes to know Wobble _loves_ him!"

"He _does_ have the most adorable little whine!" added Isabella with a warm smile.

"He _whines?"_ asked Mr Woodhouse, the thought of a whining dog rattled his nerves.

"_Of course_ he whines, Papa!" interjected the clever fifteen-year-old, with an all-knowing, reassuring air. "_All_ dogs whine, you know. But Wobble's whines are different. They are the _most_ adorable, _most _beckoning, and _most _affectionate whines! He whines because he wishes to be patted, or cuddled, or _simply _for affections…"

While Emma continued to pile one Wobble's virtue over another, Isabella kept nodding and smiling at Mr Woodhouse with zeal.

It was under such synchronised endeavouring of the two Woodhouse sisters, cataloguing the many excellences, big and small, of Wobble in their sweet and harmonious voices, echoing one another in complete unison of thoughts and sentiments, and so deftly pulling the doting strings in their father's heart with just the perfect amount of strengths, that their old father's Jericho slowly began to crumble.

His tensed countenance, by now, had relented, the severity in his eyes softened, and the wrinkles between his brows quite smoothed out, Mr Woodhouse opened his mouth to speak, "Er… this… this dog of yours…"

"_Wobble_, Papa!" proffered Emma, most enthusiastically, "His name is Wobble!"

"This… _Wobble_ of yours, Emma my dear," he continued, "you said that Mrs Hodges took very good care of him, is he living in Donwell Abbey?"

"Indeed, Papa! Wobble lives in Mr Knightley's home!"

"Humph…" Mr Woodhouse seemed to recall something, "was he… was he the dog that ate my gruel?"

"_Er_… y-yes… P-Papa…" Emma felt ashamed of what happened that day. Yet, she quickly saw a vantage point and said, "But, Papa, does not it tell you what _exquisite_ taste Wobble has?"

Now, Mr Woodhouse was pleased – for those who liked gruel _indeed _had unexceptionable taste!

A quirk on his lips, the old father nodded self-indulgently, "I suppose!"

"But," he thought he had better continue before he lost his train of thought, "Mr Knightley said it was _his_ dog!"

Clever Emma had already foreseen it coming. "Oh, Papa!" she said, "It was upon Mr Knightley's ready wit that he told you Wobble was _his _dog! He knew how much you disliked animals, and he knew how precious your gruel was to you. To see that a _dog_ had eaten your gruel, and licked the bowl cleaned, _too_! It was shocking to you, was not it?" Her father nodded. "_Imagine_, Papa – if you had known that the dog was _mine_, would not it be absolutely, unequivocally, scandalously _shocking_ to you?" Mr Woodhouse looked horrified as he agreed wholeheartedly with his daughter.

"You see," a look of wisdom appeared on the animated fifteen-year-old, "Mr Knightley could _not_ bear to throw your nerves into further disarray, and that was why he told you that Wobble was _his _dog! And I, _of course_, was very grateful for his kindness!"

Mr Woodhouse was gratified by the explanation.

"But, Emma my dear," the old gentleman was being very inquisitive today, quite beside himself, "why is your dog living in Donwell Abbey?"

Upon such inquiry, Emma's animation quickly subsided; instead, she looked doleful and meek. "Dear Papa," she said, "I _long_ to have Wobble living in Hartfield with me! Only that I knew how much the very notion of having an animal in the house would distress you, which was the reason why I asked Mr Knightley to take Wobble into the Abbey, and he has been living there ever since…"

Isabella saw Emma's hazel eyes went dim; her liveliness was replaced with disappointment. It pained her to know that how much her dear sister had given up for their parent.

"Father," she spoke tenderly to Mr Woodhouse, "would you not consider granting Emma to take Wobble to Hartfield?"

Surprised by her sister's plea, Emma looked up at Isabella with gratitude.

Mr Woodhouse was taken aback by the petition as well, and for good reasons. To say the least, he was unprepared for such preposterous request. His fear of animals bringing fleas or unsavoury deceases to Hartfield had been as ancient as Time itself, the old gentleman had never thought of allowing a dog into his house, let alone living in it. His first resolve was to refuse such supplication – yet – the soft-hearted old father had seldom allowed himself to deny the wishes of his two daughters…

The look of being caught in a quandary on her father was giving Emma hope – _At least he did not respond with a reverberating 'no'! _

As she waited patiently for an answer from him, an idea came into her head...

"Papa," she said, cautiously, "if you feel reluctant to let Wobble living with us, would you be so generous as to consider permitting him to come to Hartfield for _one_ day?"

"Oh, what a _marvellous_ idea, Emma!" exclaimed Isabella.

Mr Woodhouse considered the request.

A moment of hesitation later, "Your dog…" breaking his silence slowly, "I mean Wobble… You… you had said that he did not have fleas?" asked he.

"Oh, no, no, no! Papa! Wobble does _not_ have flea!" declared Emma. "He _never_ had, and I _promise _you that he never shall!"

"And, Father," added Isabella, "I could vow for the truth of what Emma said!"

"Hmm…" Mr Woodhouse nodded. "And…" he paused, contemplatively.

"Yes, Papa…" Emma prompted eagerly.

"And… you said he did not bite?" asked the old father.

"Oh, _no!_" said Emma, "Wobble _never _bites!"

"But would not he… er… terrify the children… and the servants?" The memory of his cousin taunting him and his aunt's servants with his bloodhound surfaced to Mr Woodhouse's mind.

"Emma's dog never terrifies Henry and John, Father! I cannot begin to tell you how the boys love Wobble!" reassured Isabella.

"And so do _all _the servants in Donwell Abbey, Papa!" echoed the fifteen-year-old, smiling hopefully at her father.

Mr Woodhouse drew a sigh. Albeit still looking unsure, Emma could tell that her father was wobbling (no pun intended) in his resolve.

_He only needed a little nudge!_ – The fifteen-year-old was certain.

Then, another idea came…

"Papa," her father turned his distracted gaze to her, "it shall be Christmas Eve in two days, we are to celebrate Christmas as a family. If you would permit me to bring Wobble to Hartfield, you shall see with your own eyes, how _handsomely_ he behaves with everybody, and then you could decide whether to allow him to come to Hartfield to live with us or not," entreated Emma, with uppermost sincerity.

Mr Woodhouse pondered for a brief moment. The old father found his daughter's idea not unreasonable. At last, he nodded to assent.

"_Oh!" _overwhelmed with joy, Emma threw her arms around her papa's neck, kissing his cheeks, and exclaiming,

"Thank you, thank you, _thank_ _you_, Papa! You are the _most generous_ father in the world!_"_

* * *

Later that afternoon, in the drawing-room at Donwell Abbey, a far more subdued, though equally joyful, conversation was taking place between a certain bailiff and his master's spaniel…

"Richard's old room has been fixed up," reported eagerly by William Larkins, while Wobble was chomping down a green turnip top.

"The new bed sheet is fresh and crisp!" exclaimed he. "I know it is quite extravagant, but this shall be Richard's wife's first visit to his childhood home – _our_ Larkins home! It would not do to have her think she had married into a shabby family, you know."

Wobble was still busy relishing the treat, but he _did_ wiggle his tail and twitched his ear to show his approval for his human friend's scheme.

William Larkins nodded smugly, "I thought you would agree with me!"

He gave another turnip top to Wobble and went on.

"The children shall take the bed in my room, and I shall sleep on the straw bed at night in the sitting room. It would be easy enough to move the chairs to the window to make room for the bed."

The old bailiff stared into the air for a brief moment, an amusing light twinkled his eyes.

"Mrs Barton said I _ought_ to let the children sleep on the straw bed. She said children should know their places, and they should respect their grandpa!"

Wobble had devoured the second turnip top and looked up with a grin of satisfaction.

William Larkins was pleased to see that his canine friend had read his mind again.

"_Of course_, I told her!" he said to the dog. "I told her that children or not, they were the _Larkins'_ guests, and they _shall _have my room!" he snickered. "You should have seen the look on that old woman's face when I put her in her place!" as soon as he finished, the old man burst into chuckles.

William Larkins made an effort to compose himself, yet, he was helpless in suppressing the smile so readily curving his lips.

"Only _two_ _more_ days!" he told Wobble, the only being with whom he had been counting down the days since he received the letter from his son.

"Two more days and Richard shall be…"

But before he could finish, he saw Wobble leaping up on his paws, barked and skipped excitedly to the entryway of the drawing-room behind him.

The old bailiff turned around to discover that Miss Woodhouse was entering in.

As soon as her father dozed off by the fire, Emma took leave of Hartfield to come to the Abbey. The prospect of finally having her pet living with her at Hartfield had made her restless with anticipations. She had come to the Abbey to share the wonderful news and give Mrs Hodges the order to scrub and bathe and groom Wobble to perfection in the next two days.

However, upon finding her pet not with Mr Knightley, she quickly suspected whom he might be with. Since Mr Knightley had denied her wish to keep William Larkins away from Wobble, the fifteen-year-old had been keen on keeping her dog from William Larkins whenever she could. She was glad that the day before little Henry and baby John had made her rumbustious spaniel completely fallen in love with them, all his attentions were devoted to the children when they visited him. But when she was absent from the Abbey, and without Mr Knightley's support, she was powerless in preventing any sort of interactions between the bailiff and her dog.

When she learnt that Mr Knightley had only finished his meeting with William Larkins minutes ago, she had left the library hastily to look for Wobble. And now, unsurprised, she heard the voice of the bailiff as she came near the drawing-room.

Wobble bounded up to her as soon as she reached the entrance of the drawing-room, and Emma received him with open arms and endearing smiles. Even though Wobble had grown to be nearly too big for her, she held him up to her bosom and planted an affectionate kiss on the top of his head.

"Good afternoon, Miss Woodhouse," said William Larkins with a bow, giving the young mistress a very proper greeting.

The smiles on Emma vanished instantly, "Good afternoon, Mr Larkins," she returned, very stiffly.

In keeping Wobble from William Larkins, Emma had been avoiding the bailiff for the past several days. In her last meeting with the old bailiff, she was warm and friendly, offering him advices on how to decipher the emotions of dogs and encouraging him to practice his new learnt knowledge on her spaniel. Despite his awkward reluctance, she invited him to take Wobble for walks in the Donwell garden with her. Thinking that she was doing the old bailiff a great service, she had been insistent – even to the point of imposing the bailiff to take a liking of her dog – all for having the noble intention of curing the man's fear of canines.

It was in their last meeting that the fifteen-year-old had thought that she detected a softening in disposition in the severe man and some tender twinkles peeping from his stern eyes when his hands stroke Wobble.

But – who would have known how _thoroughly_ mistaken she _was_!

Just now, Emma caught the twinkles that lighted William Larkins' eyes when he turned around, and she was sure that they were sparks of amusements mocking her for her foolishness!

_How could I be so stupid! _

She had chastised herself more times than she could count after she learnt the truth from Mr Knightley.

_What a fool this man must think of me!_

The image of William Larkins laughing at her foolishness was humiliating to the young mistress. In her moment of dudgeon, "Will you be taking Wobble for a walk, Miss Woodhouse?" she heard the bailiff inquire.

The fifteen-year-old was beyond certain that the affable manner (which was _so_ _much_ unlike him!) the perfidious man spoke to her was an intent act of masking his anticipated delight in a new episode of her stupidity!

Feeling indignant and infuriated, Emma looked sharply at William Larkins.

"_Yes!"_ she said, not checking the irritation in her voice, "_I_ shall be walking him – _alone_!"

Without wasting another second, clutching Wobble to her bosom, "Good day, Mr Larkins," she said haughtily, turned, and flounced out of the drawing-room.

* * *

_A/N: As always, thank you for reading! :)_


	47. Chapter 47

_A/N: My apology for taking so long to post this chapter! I've had virtually no time to myself to edit this chapter even though the draft was written weeks ago, but finally here it is..._

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

It was the morning of Christmas Eve, Emma had awakened early. The maid had only just come into her chamber to stoke the fire and push the curtains aside, but the fifteen-year-old could hardly wait to leave her bed to begin the joyous day.

The particularly foggy morning could not put a damper in her buoyant spirit, nor could it cast a shadow above the merry dimples on her face. She took care to dress for the festive occasion, dancing down the stairs in lighter than air treads. Her lilting fingers grazed the evergreens hanging on the stair rails, her pretty little nose soaked in the essence of the Holly and Ivy adorning the mantelpiece.

She had gone gathering mistletoes a few days prior, this morning the servants had hung them on the entryway of several auspicious places by her design. No, the kissing boughs were not for her father so he could kiss their young maids – certainly the old gentleman would have been mortified by such prospect! Nor would she purposely create situations where her brother-in-law would kiss another woman – for John should _only _be allowed to kiss his wife, her dear sister, Isabella. One might think that the mischievous lass must be planning on entrapping the unsuspecting Mr Knightley into kissing a Hartfield old maid, yet, Emma had no such thought. She had attempted a similar craft just the year before, and, unluckily, her all-knowing, could-read-her-like-his-sheep, must-have-eyes-on-top-of-his-head grown-up friend had ruined her grand scheme and turned her own contrivance against her. The exasperating gentleman had even made her promise to never again plot the same trick on him, or on the spinster Miss Bates.

Now, if truth be told, the kissing boughs were not for anybody but the fifteen-year-old herself. As Aunt Emma loved kisses from her nephews, with each white berry that she plucked from the mistletoes while they stood underneath, the little gentlemen would be obliged to give her a lovely kiss. Though little Henry and baby John often spattered kisses on their aunt whom they adored, there could never be _too _many kisses from the cherubs, and it would never be _too_ early to teach the boys the gaiety of such charming tradition.

Christmas had always been Emma's favourite holiday, but today was a particularly momentous day for her. After one and a half year of boarding her beloved spaniel at Donwell Abbey, using every reason, every excuse she could invent to give to her father so she could visit Mr Knightley's home nearly every day, her father had granted her approval to bring her dog to Hartfield – Wobble was to finally come home with her!

Ever since Isabella was married and removed, the uneventful life of the Woodhouses had gotten even quieter, and in all likelihood lonelier, for the youngest Woodhouse. While many in Highbury would love to befriend Miss Woodhouse, Emma had had little interest to reciprocate the wish. Being so clever and lively, she had found most of the girls her age insipid and commonplace – that was until she met Agnes. Unfortunately, their friendship had not lasted for a year, Agnes had to remove, and she was left with Wobble and Miss Taylor as her friends and companions.

Emma had always been grateful to have Miss Taylor. The care and affection that Miss Taylor gave her since she was a little girl had made Miss Taylor far more like a friend, an older sister, or a surrogate mother than a governess to her. There was no doubt in Emma's heart that she loved Miss Taylor the same way she loved her father and her sister Isabella, but, her love for her spaniel was of an entirely different sort.

She had brought up Wobble since he was barely a couple weeks old, taken him in when he might have been left in the fields to die. She had spoon-fed him nourishments when he had no mother to suckle, coddled him in her bosom as there was no siblings to keep him warm, taught him to climb stairs one step at a time for his eyes could not see. She had boarded him at the best of the best homes outside of Hartfield any dog (or human for that matter) could dream of, loved and nurtured him as he was her very own. While she was to him his Divine Deity, he was to her her most loyal, devoted friend. She could tell him anything and needed not be afraid of being misjudged, express herself in the most honest ways without being thought of prejudiced, she had often discussed with him her mischievous schemes and he had never betrayed her secrets to anyone. She had revealed her innermost feelings to him when she could not even tell them to Miss Taylor and he had always listened with all his mind, his heart, and his sincerity. She did not mind that he could not see, while others loathed animals with defects, Emma saw Wobble's blindness as his birthmark, there to remind her that he was special. She loved the silly dances and ruffing he made when she was happy, and she always felt better when he rubbed his furry head tenderly against her ankle or licked the tears off her cheek when she was sad. Her love for Wobble had been instinctive and protective, and in that love, she found acceptance in its purest form.

The anticipation of bringing Wobble to Hartfield for the first time legitimately, and most likely permanently, was driving the fifteen-year-old mad. Had not there been the delightful presence of her adored sister and nephews to distract her, she did not know how she could pass the morning and sat through nuncheon.

As soon as she partook the simple repast with her father and Isabella, Emma – with excitement threatening to burst her chest open – drove off to Donwell Abbey in the Hartfield carriage with their coachman James to accomplish the important task of fetching Wobble to his rightful home!

* * *

Just when the young mistress of Hartfield was stepping into her carriage, in about a mile away, in the library of Donwell Abbey, the Donwell bailiff was going over with his master the last piece of his estate business before the holiday commenced…

"Has the dispute between the Foyers and Makepeaces been settled?" asked Mr Knightley.

"Yes, sir," replied William Larkins, sombrely. "The bounds have been fixed and marked. It is now clear that the Makepeaces were at fault, in allowing their dog trampling and eating the Foyers' turnips."

"Then the Makepeaces are liable for the damages their terrier had caused."

"Indeed, sir," the bailiff nodded. "Makepeace has agreed, though not without much grumblings, to repay Foyer in kind the damages his dog caused, but he had requested to delay the payment until January."

Raising an eyebrow, "I do not suppose Foyer would agree," remarked the master, sounding dubious.

"On the contrary, sir, Foyer has agreed," reported the bailiff. "Although, he did make sure that Makepeace knew that it was against his nature to be generous, that he had only allowed it because it was Christmas and he was willing to grant his neighbour and his dog the leniency."

Knowing that it was indeed out of character of Mr Foyer to be generous, Mr Knightley's dubious expression turned into a warm smile. "I am glad to hear that Foyer is feeling charitable this Christmas!"

But, apparently, his bailiff did not seem to share his sentiment – William Larkins stood there motionless, his countenance was out of sort, and his stony face was graver than ever.

Mr Knightley had noticed the dullness in William Larkins when he walked into the library, but he knew his bailiff well enough to know that the man would prefer to be the one bringing up matters that troubled him. Unfortunately, the master had waited for their entire meeting, yet his bailiff had not mentioned a word of it.

Though William Larkins did not speak of his son again since he asked for the holiday, Mr Knightley could tell that the subject had been in the core of his heart. There had been constant shadows of smiles on William Larkins since he told him the news, which was why the astute gentleman wondered if his gloominess this day had to do with his son's visit.

"Did Richard and his family arrive safely last night, Larkins?" the kind-hearted master could not help but inquire.

Looking down, the old bailiff shook his head, and replied, quietly, "They did not come, sir."

Mr Knightley was surprised. "Did something happen to the stagecoach?" he asked with concern.

William Larkins shook his head again. "The stagecoach arrived, but they were not on it."

"Perhaps they were detained and will be on tonight's coach," suggested the master.

"No, sir," replied the old bailiff, shaking his head for the third time, "I received a letter from Richard this morning, it says he could not extricate from his duty at the factory, perhaps they would come next Christmas instead."

Though William Larkins had said it calmly, Mr Knightley could hear the disappointment in his voice.

Mr Knightley's heart sank for William Larkins. "I am very sorry, Larkins," he said sincerely, and received a rueful smile from the old man.

"Sir," the bailiff spoke again, "regarding the holiday I requested…"

"There is no need to change, Larkins," the kind master succeeded immediately. "You work too hard, you could use the rest. Please take the holiday as you have planned."

"My old joints grow stiffer when I do not work, sir. Would you mind me returning on the 27th of December?" asked William Larkins, it was more a statement than a question that he made.

"But it is hardly a holiday!" protested Mr Knightley.

"It is sufficient for me," William Larkins replied firmly.

Mr Knightley drew a quiet sigh. There was no point in debating with his bailiff when the man had long made up his mind.

"If that is the case – As you wish, Larkins," conceded the master.

"Thank you, Mr Knightley."

Once taking his bow, William Larkins exited the library.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Miss Emma!" the faithful Donwell Abbey housekeeper greeted their favourite guest at the entrance hall. "You look so beautiful today!" Mrs Hodges was not a flatterer, but Miss Emma had always a tender spot in her heart, and the young mistress was particularly lovely and radiant this afternoon.

"Thank you, Mrs Hodges!" The fifteen-year-old smiled brilliantly to thank Mr Knightley's good servant. "Is Wobble cleaned and groomed, Mrs Hodges?" she could not wait to find out.

"Oh, yes! Wobble is scrubbed, bathed, and brushed – he is _perfect_ from head to toe!" reported the good housekeeper, sharing the excitement of the young mistress. "And I sprinkled the rosewater on him as you ordered, he smells absolutely divine, Miss Emma! And he looks like a gentleman-dog befitting his mistress!"

"Wait until I put this cravat on him, Mrs Hodges," Emma removed the fine linen from her reticule, "Wobble shall _truly_ be the perfect gentleman-dog in every sense of the description!" Happiness was spilling from within the fifteen-year-old.

She looked around, agog to see her dog, and asked, "Where is he?"

"Humph…" muttered the housekeeper, also looking around, "he was with me not long ago… Perhaps he is in the drawing-room; let me go fetch him for you, Miss Emma."

Still glowing in her brilliancy, "It is not necessary, Mrs Hodges," said Emma, "I am eager to see Wobble, and shall go directly to him!" and floated down the Abbey hall.

* * *

After quitting Mr Knightley, William Larkins wandered about the Abbey looking for Wobble. The spaniel often favoured the drawing-room when he was not by his master's side; it was usually effortless to find him. But today, it had taken him several turns, peering into the various corners and parlours of the ancient house to discover the canine's whereabouts. And when he finally found him, he was in the small parlour with windows looking out to the dormant orchard trees.

The December sun that was hiding all morning long had found its way through the clouds and warmed a small area in the parlour by the window. Wobble was lying contently on the sweet spot, curling up like a ball and basking his golden fluff. With head between his paws and jaw on the floor, his droopy eyelids were nearly closed, and his ears spilling lazily over his shoulders onto the floor. But no sooner had the sleepy creature heard the footfalls of his human friend entering in than he bounced up to his paws and bade his friend to join him under the cosy sun.

Unfortunately, Wobble's friendly welcome elicited not even a wan smile on William Larkins. The old bailiff was feeling exhausted, his facial muscle, albeit perpetually stiff by will, was more stubborn than he could help it.

"There you are…" said William Larkins weakly. He walked over to Wobble with heavy steps, leaned forward and stroke his furry head very slowly.

Wobble gave another warm greeting, but it had little effect on him.

For a very long moment, the old man said nothing, only kept stroking the spaniel's head absently.

Wobble returned to the floor. Seemingly offering his understanding, he rested his jaw on the foot of his human friend.

William Larkins stared helplessly at Wobble; slowly, the canine friend's quiet understanding seemed to begin to affect him.

Sighing heavily, "You knew… did not you?" he asked. "You must think I am a silly old fool!"

Wobble looked up at him, whimpering to voice his disagreement against his human friend's self-deprecation.

William Larkins continued to feel the pangs at his stinging heart. He heaved another tired breath as he fixed his eyes outside the window at the barren fruit trees.

But Wobble would not give up. He inched forward, nestling his jaw even closer to his human friend's feet. A feeling of warmth and comfort gently brought the old bailiff's vacant gaze to him.

At last, the old man remembered the reason he came looking for the spaniel.

"I have a Christmas present for you…" he said with spent spirit.

Reaching his hand into the pocket of his coat, however, instead of retrieving the present, his hand, unwillingly, pulled out the letter from his son that he collected from the post-office this morning.

Staring at the letter, the old father fell into an abysmal silence.

The last letter from his son was still tucked away securely in the pocket of his waistcoat; the unexpected missive had been the source of his happiness for the last few days. He had been reading the letters several times a day, as if by reading it so often his son would come sooner. But, whereas the last missive had given him immeasurable joy, the letter from this morning only brought him unfathomable disappointment.

With a thoroughly sunken heart, William Larkins returned the letter to his pocket and removed out of it a green turnip top with the bulk of the turnip on it.

Wobble immediately sprang up and barked in enthusiasm.

The old bailiff endeavoured to smile, but was only able to muster a sorrowful one. He bent to bestow Wobble the present, muttering, "Happy… Christmas… my _dear… _little friend…"

Diishearteningly, he stood there, watching Wobble devour the Christmas present. And when Wobble finished and looked up happily at him, he reckoned that it was time to depart – Yet, his heavy feet, and his even heavier heart, were weighing down on him.

Instead of bidding his little friend good-bye, William Larkins, unaware of his own person, suddenly dropped down on his knees and clasped Wobble to him.

In a momentarily lapse of self-restrains, overpowered by the emptiness filling his existence, and the assurance of comfort and understanding from an innocent friend, William Larkins wrapped Wobble tremblingly in his arms, squeezed his eyes, and began pouring out his lonely soul.

"I thought after _ten years_ I was going to see my son…" his throat grew tighter as he spoke, "I thought he had finally put our quarrels behind… _yet_…" his shaking voice faltered.

Eyes remaining closed, tears slowly broke through his lashes. He drew a deep breath, swallowed the sobs rising up his throat, "He said his master could not spare him… How could _any _master be so unfeeling! How could _any_ man disallow a son to go to his old father after _ten long _years?"

He suddenly pulled away, opening his eyes looking at his little friend in panic, "What _if_ he _still_ resents me… What _if_ he does not wish to _ever _see me again?"

Faithful Wobble whimpered in William Larkins' arms, rubbing his head against his weathered face.

Shutting his eyes again, burying his face in the spaniel's coat, "I miss Richard… I miss him _so_ _very_ _much_!" confessed the old father in desperation. "I would give _anything _to get those ten years back… _anything…_ only if Richard is willing to come back to me!"

* * *

Emma could listen no longer. She staggered many steps back, away from the entry of the small parlour, away from the heart-breaking scene she happened to stumble upon.

She had been to the drawing-room looking for Wobble, and when she did not find him she began to search the Abbey room after room. She was beginning to feel anxious when she could not find him after searching nearly every room in Mr Knightley's house. But when she heard barks coming from far down the corridor, she quickly followed the echo to come to the parlour threshold, and to her utter abhorrence, she saw William Larkins feeding turnip top to her Wobble.

She had taken great care to ascertain Wobble would be suited to meet her father properly for the first time. Such meeting, she had high hopes, would be the beginning of her dog living at Hartfield with her. Nevertheless, she was also aware that one unfortunate mistake, particularly an unbecoming indelicate one from Wobble, could shatter any chance that her father might accept him into his house.

In spite of the unusual slouched shoulders and dejected back on the astringent Donwell bailiff that met her first glance, as soon as Wobble chomping on a green turnip top caught her eyes, she was enraged by the certainty that the bailiff must be determined to ruin her and Wobble's chance at happiness. Immediately setting off to go near them, she was nearly tripped by the lace that came off her half-boot. She stopped, hastened to fix the lace, but when she unbent and looked up, she discovered that William Larkins was clasping and speaking to Wobble with his eyes closed.

The scene took her by utter surprise. Aside from the time when she taunted Mr Knightley's bailiff with her puppy, Emma had hardly seen the man with more emotions than the scarecrows in the fields. Famed for his unyielding character and stern façade, a lift of a disapproving eyebrow, or a feign cough of disdain were the most she had seen on him. A privy to William Larkins soddening with emotions had shocked her to a frozen still.

Although she had lost command of her feet, her hearing was in perfect order. From where she stood, Emma could hear every word said by the bailiff, who was unaware of her presence with his eyes shut tight. There were many moments her mind wished to cover her ears, but her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She did not listen for long though, for her young heart could not bear the old man's sadness.

The fifteen-year-old had initially wanted to rush into the parlour to claim her dog from the perfidious bailiff no longer had the courage to walk in. She was relieved that Mr Larkins did not perceive her presence. However, Wobble was aware of her. The moment when she entered in Wobble had pivoted his head toward her, yet, either the spaniel was as shocked as she was by William Larkins' violent emotions, or his tender, kind nature had prevented him from abandoning the distraught man, Emma was grateful that Wobble did not bound up to her the way he always did. Nevertheless, she was ashamed for intruding on the broken man, and anxious to leave the scene before she was seen. She had hastened down the corridor and taken a turn, it was then when she ran, unwittingly, headlong into Mrs Hodges.

"I _beg_ your pardon, Miss Emma!" the stout housekeeper apologised hurriedly, though unscathed by the collision, she did have to steady herself and her guest.

_"I am so sorry!" _blurted Emma, ardently, before her shaken vision saw whom she had collided into.

Perhaps, deep in her youthful conscience, her apology was more for what she overheard from Mr Larkins than the collision with Mrs Hodges.

"Oh, are you hurt, Miss Emma?" Mrs Hodges grew anxious when she saw the paleness on the young mistress. "I am such a clumsy old fool! I hope I did not hurt you!"

"Oh, no, no, Mrs Hodges!" Emma quickly assured, composing herself. "I am not hurt. It was not your fault. I was the one who was not watching!"

The housekeeper fussed over her guest, making sure her limbs and her joints were intact, her ankles not twisted, and her gown, bonnet and spencer all return to order.

"Thank you, Mrs Hodges!" said the young mistress a little embarrassingly.

"I am _so_ glad you were not hurt, Miss Emma!" said Mrs Hodges with relief. "You are so delicate and I am such a horse, it was fortunate that I did not knock you to the floor!"

"I am not so delicate, Mrs Hodges," the fifteen-year-old protested mildly.

The motherly woman smiled, "_All _young mistresses are delicate, my dear Miss Emma! It is _our_ duty to make certain that you are cared for in the most proper ways!"

Diverted, Emma was amused. She had always considered herself the tomboy in her family; Miss Taylor had often shaken her head helplessly, but fondly, at her not-so-ladylike antics. She had been called many names by her grown-up friend Mr Knightley – elfin, spirited, impish, mischievous, intrepid, hoydenish, or even devil-may-care, but he had never called her delicate_, _for they both knew she was not!

Yet, she could not mind – Mrs Hodges, and all the long-time servants at Donwell Abbey, had watched her grow since she was an infant – Perhaps, the motherly woman would always be protective of her no matter how old she grew.

Mrs Hodges spotted Wobble's cravat had flown out of Emma's hand onto the floor, she waddled over, bent and picked it up.

"Were you able to find Wobble, Miss Emma?" asked she, handing the cravat back to the young mistress.

Emma was suddenly reminded of the scene at the parlour.

She took the cravat from Mrs Hodges, looked down, avoiding the housekeeper's inquiring gaze, muttering, "_Er_… I… I… N-no…"

"_Do_ allow me to look for Wobble for you," offered Mrs Hodges, but no sooner had she took one step than the sound of barking reached their ears. "Oh, Wobble must be near!" the good servant perked, padding off after the remnant of the sound.

For a moment, Emma was left alone in the corridor. The image of Mr Larkins doused in his misery continued to form knots in her heart. But before long, Mrs Hodges was trailing behind Wobble, who was bounding up to his mistress in gaiety and joy.

"He was with Mr Larkins in the Orchard Room, Miss Emma!" reported Mrs Hodges happily.

"He… he _was_?" stammered the fifteen-year-old, mustering a look of surprise.

"And Mr Larkins asked me to beg your pardon for not coming to bid you Happy Christmas," supplied the housekeeper. "He said he must return home at once!"

"_He_… he _did_?" Another look of surprise was plastered on Emma's face.

"Indeed!" replied Mrs Hodges, "And who could blame him?" smiling as she added, "He must be on pins and needles waiting to see his son!"

Emma's eyes widened, "Mr Larkins' son… _is… _to come?" she asked.

"Why yes, Miss Emma! Mind you that Mr Larkins had only mentioned Richard's return once to us, and not spoken of it since then, but we _all_ know how he likes to keep things to himself! He did not have to tell anyone how happy he was, everybody at the Abbey had caught him smiling whenever he was not looking the last few days. We are _all_ so happy for him for finally able to see his son after so long!"

Now, this time Emma was genuinely surprised. She was certain that she had overheard Mr Larkins told Wobble that his son was not to come, and she had his sorrowful image in her memory to prove it. But then –

_Why would Mrs Hodges say that Mr Larkins' son was returning home to see him? Did she not know that his son was not coming?_

The fifteen-year-old went into contemplation.

_Perhaps he had not the opportunity to tell Mrs Hodges… Or... perhaps he was too distressed to remember to tell her… _

Then, she remembered Mr Knightley had once said that Mr Larkins was a very private man.

_Perhaps… perhaps he had chosen not to tell Mrs Hodges… _

Emma also recalled Mr Knightley said how his bailiff found it difficult to reveal himself to any person, particularly in situations where he felt embarrassed or ashamed.

_Yet… he would reveal his feelings to... Wobble…_

"Is there anything else I could do for you, Miss Emma?" Mrs Hodges's inquiry brought Emma out of her reverie.

"Oh…" she quickened to gather her thought, "N-no, Mrs Hodges, that would be all!"

"In that case, would you pardon me, Miss Emma, that I should bid you good day and Happy Christmas? You see, since Mr John Knightley and his family are staying at Hartfield, Mr Knightley has given us all a holiday until the New Year, except for Thomas who has no family of his own and begged to stay to look after our master!" imparted the good servant with a broad smile. "Many of us have families and relatives visiting this Christmas, I think I had better go on and make sure all are in good order before it is time to take our leaves!"

In her mind, Emma thought that it was just like the kind-hearted Mr Knightley to be so generous – but in her heart, the knots for Mr Larkins still wrung.

She summoned a gracious smile and said, "Of course I do not mind. Happy Christmas, Mrs Hodges!"

"Oh, Happy Christmas, Miss Emma!"

Emma watched Mrs Hodges's waddling shadow rounded the corner of the long corridor and disappeared.

She turned her gaze to Wobble, who had been waiting patiently and expectantly at her side. She knelt down next to him, stroked the back of his neck, his favourite spot, tenderly, and ponderingly, for many moments, until she heard the clock chime and realised that there could not be many hours before the sun would go down, and before Christmas would be here.

Still headful of unanswerable questions, she stared at the cravat in her hand for a while, and, slowly, gathering herself and her dog,

"Come, Wobble," she said, trying to smile her best smile for her dear boy, "I think it is time to go to Mr Knightley!"

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so much for reading! :) _


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter Forty-Eight**

"Emma," Mr Knightley arose behind his writing desk when Emma came into the library, "I have been wondering your whereabouts!"

Two days ago, the gentleman had promised his young friend that he would personally escort Wobble and her to Hartfield on Christmas Eve for the momentous occasion of sending her, as well as his, beloved pet to his rightful home. Today, three quarters of an hour ago, he had finished looking over the accounts, replying his letters, and handing out Christmas presents and good wishes to his Donwell staffs and dismissing them for the holiday. He had been reading his agricultural journal in the library while waiting for Emma to emerge. When he did not see her at the appointed hour, he had wondered where she was, if he should go look for her in the drawing room, the Donwell gardens, the many nooks and crannies in the Abbey, or, if she felt the necessity to remind him of where he had first met Wobble – his Donwell stable!

Delighted that he needed not go searching for her as he did the day when she brought her spaniel to his house, he came to her immediately, greeting her with a welcoming smile and bending to rub the back of Wobble's neck with affection.

"I am sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Knightley," meekly, said the fifteen-year-old.

"It does not signify, Emma, I am glad you have come," assured the gentleman, still smiling. "Has John arrived when you left Hartfield?"

"No, John had not arrived when I left, but I imagine… he must have while I am here…" she replied, distractedly.

"Are you and Wobble ready for Hartfield?" asked Mr Knightley, with an eagerness to see to her and Wobble's happiness.

Instead of giving Mr Knightley the answer he was expecting, Emma looked up at him wistfully, opening her mouth seemingly wishing to speak but did not.

Mr Knightley had thought Emma looked rather subdued when she first came in, particularly when he had been expecting a cheery, bubbly, and smiling young person. And now, he found her pensiveness very odd under such eagerly awaited occasion.

Wondering what was on her mind, he watched a crease locked between her brows, waited patiently for a few moments, and when she would not reply,

"Emma?" he prompted.

In the few silent moments, thoughts thronged the fifteen-year-old's mind. In copious joy she had come to fetch Wobble to Hartfield, could not even bear a minute delay to induct her beloved spaniel into her family. But one unfortunate stumbling into Mr Knightley's bailiff's sad state, her exultant world was overturned onto the wrong side of the road.

How she wished to tell Mr Knightley that she and Wobble were ready for Hartfield! Tried as she might, she could not banish from her mind the heartrending scene she unwittingly witnessed several minutes ago, and the harder she tried, the sorrier she felt for the old man, and the more she wished to know the truth of his circumstance.

But when the struggle within her turned intolerable, she took a deep breath, gulping the whole of her struggle down her throat. Her mind finally made up, "Mr Knightley," she spoke, "is Mr Larkins' son not to come to Donwell this Christmas?"

None of Mr Knightley's concerns for Emma had prepared him for the inquiry. From the way his other servants had spoken of his bailiff before they were dismissed for the holiday, he was certain that aside from him William Larkins had kept the intelligence to himself.

"How did you know, Emma?" he felt the need to ask.

"I overheard Mr Larkins speaking to Wobble of it!" replied she.

"_Wobble?"_ The gentleman was surprised by her answer.

"Yes, _Wobble!_" the young lady said a little impatiently. Anxious to know the answer to her question, she succeeded quickly, "But is Mr Larkins' son not to come this Christmas?"

"No, Larkins' son is not to come," confirmed Mr Knightley.

If there were an inkling of hope in Emma that she had misheard William Larkins or that Mrs Hodges was right, now that hope had been completely vanquished. Nevertheless, while her heart sank further for the bailiff, her desire to understand his circumstance afloat.

"Where is he?" she implored, "Why is he not with his father?"

Coming from the one whose love for her father was as certain as the sun rising from the east, it was undoubtedly a natural question, but Emma's motive behind the question was a mystery to Mr Knightley.

"Why do you ask, Emma?" returned the gentleman.

Rather than answering Mr Knightley, "Have I ever met him?" Emma added.

"Perhaps," he said, recalling the past, "Larkins had often come to the Abbey with his son, but it was a long time ago, you could not have been more than couple years old."

_Little wonder – _the fifteen-year-old reckoned – _that she had no recollection of the bailiff's son._

"Why is _Richard_…" she succeeded, but felt strange calling the bailiff's son by his Christian name, yet the tenderness in the way Mr Larkins called his son had impressed upon her. "I mean – Why is Mr Larkins' son not with him?"

"There are many sons who do not live with their fathers, Emma," said the gentleman, cautiously.

"But he _is_ Mr Larkins' only son, is he not?" she questioned, though already knew her answer.

Mindfully, Mr Knightley assented.

"Then, he _is_ _all_ that Mr Larkins has!" concluded the fifteen-year-old.

It would have been different had William Larkins had brothers and sisters or kinsmen in Donwell or nearby. But the Larkins were a small family, William Larkins was the only son of his father, and he only had one son. The gentleman really could not argue with the young lady.

With regrets, Mr Knightley nodded, surmising where this conversation might be going.

"Where is he, Mr Knightley?" Emma returning to her previous inquiries, "Why is he not with his father?"

"As far as I know, Richard and his family live in Manchester," supplied the gentleman. "As for the reason, Emma – it is between Larkins and him."

"But would not it be the duty of _us_ – those who are sons and daughters, to look after our parents – the persons who give us life?" she asked firmly.

Emma might be spoiled by those near her since her birth, but many virtues innate in her were untouched by her circumstance. Mr Knightley had always the deepest admiration for her devotion to her family, particularly the unfailing love she had for her father.

Realising that perhaps her young age, her sheltered life, her lack of experience with the world had not made it easy for her to comprehend certain situations, "Human beings are complex, Emma," he explained. "Sometimes, even the most natural and desirables could not prevent a person from being steered onto a different path by his nature, and sometimes what is natural to one is the utter opposite to another."

Emma mulled over Mr Knightley's words. Her understanding had easily convinced her that the truth of what he said was clearly written in everywhere and everyone, even herself was no exception – How often she had banished her desire to obey Miss Taylor to study and practice the pianoforte, to go wandering about the woods looking for amusements because of her lively disposition, and how often her impatience and annoyance had allowed her to find Miss Bates' chatters insipid and let her own imagination drown over the woman's voice!

Yet – her nature, having always her father's happiness in the forefront of her heart, had made it difficult for her to understand what sort of human nature could cause the separation between a father and his son.

_Was it poverty? _ _Families were often broken apart when they had no means to sustain in where they live… Or was it because of the death of Mr Larkins' wife that his son was taken away to live with a distant aunt or relative like so many motherless or orphaned children? _

Emma could not perceive such possibilities, for the Larkins' livelihood had always been secured with the Knightley family, and Mr Larkins' son, from what she had heard, did not remove until some ten years ago when he was all grown.

_Besides – poverty and being motherless had little to do with human natures…_

She was unable to comprehend Mr Larkins' circumstance, and it troubled her soul more so than it intrigued her mind.

"Mr Knightley," she looked up at him intently, "would you tell me what made Mr Larkins' son left Mr Larkins? It seemed heartless of him to leave his father!"

"What made you think that William Larkins' son was heartless, Emma?"

"_Of course_ he was heartless!" exclaimed the fifteen-year-old. "He left his father when he was _all_ that he had!"

Mr Knightley considered Emma's remarks carefully, as what he should tell her concerned the privacy of the two men.

Emma must have read his mind…

"Pray, Mr Knightley, I do not wish to tittle-tattle, only to understand," pleaded she. "It is unimaginable to me for a son to leave his father – I could _never_ imagine leaving Papa! What human natures could be _so _profound that should compel a son to leave his father behind?"

The imploring light in Emma's eyes, the sincerity in her supplication, and the urgency of her request had made it impossible for Mr Knightley to withhold what she sought to understand. He regarded her inquiry again, and with the view to improve her understanding,

"I know you have often perceived William Larkins as a stern man, Emma," he relented, "but he is as good and honourable as he is austere. He is a man who holds himself with pride and honour and regards his duty as seriously as life itself. My grandfather had once told my father, who had told me that from when William Larkins was in his cradle, he was looked upon by his family as the one to carry the Larkins' legacy, which was the steward office of the Donwell estate. Those who know William Larkins since he was a young boy would tell you that he had inherited the undying loyalty to the Knightley family from his forefathers, and the good man has invested his lifetime to prove it."

Like many who did not know his bailiff intimately, Emma had had her share of misunderstandings against William Larkins for a long time. Mr Knightley was encouraged to see not only that she had no rebuff against his account on William Larkins' virtues, her nods while listening told him that she agreed with him.

But now, a challenge was laid before him, he must find a way to tell her about Larkins' son, on whom she seemed to be fast forming an unfavourable opinion.

"If you had met Richard, Emma," he embarked, "and were old enough to remember him, you would have noticed how different he is from his father."

Head tilted, Emma was listening with intense interest.

"Unlike his father, who is reserved and predisposed to adhere to all things orderly and predictable and unchanged, Richard was outspoken, lively, inquisitive, and was born with the spirit of an explorer."

Already intrigued, Emma, the enthralled audience, found it interesting that Mr Larkins should sound quite like her father, whereas she would share some similarities with his son.

"As you might have surmised," said Mr Knightley, "that it was William Larkins' ardent desire to have Richard inherit his family's legacy in the same way that he had inherited his."

"Is not it what _all_ fathers wish of their sons?" the young lady asked.

Mr Knightley nodded to agree.

"Richard and I are about the same age," he went on, "I could recall Larkins taking him to the Abbey to see my father when he had learnt his alphabets, which was when William Larkins began teaching him all things farming, and only a few years later that his apprenticeship with his father began."

The picture of William Larkins and his young son together conjured up an endearing image in Emma's mind, but as she quickly did the arithmetic in her head – _Richard was Mr Knightley's age, he was sixteen years her senior, and he had left his father ten years ago, which was when he was at the age of twenty or one and twenty… but he had already stopped coming to the Abbey at least four years before he left his father, because, as Mr Knightley said, she could not be more than couple years old when he used to come with Mr Larkins…_

When the fifteen-year-old finished the arithmetic, "Things must have gone awry between them long before Richard left Mr Larkins!" she blurted.

"Perhaps," regarding her remarks, "things had not gone as much awry as it was different," he imparted.

"Did Richard dislike being a steward apprentice of his father?" she asked.

"You have guessed half of it," said the gentleman. "Being his father's apprentice did not trouble him. What he disliked was being a farmer or steward apprentice."

"He _disliked_ farming?" Emma asked.

"Richard was disinterested in all things farming," supplied Mr Knightley, noting the surprised look on her. "I know it must come as a surprise to you. The three Larkins generations before Richard, all of them had a passion for farming and the management of the Donwell estate. But it is not a natural law for any son to take up the callings of his forebears, and Richard, for his liveliness and exploring nature, could not succumb to what seemed natural to his fathers and others, yet utterly unnatural to him."

"Did he stop apprenticing with Mr Larkins then?" inquired the curious young lady.

"He did not – not for as long as he could help it," replied Mr Knightley. "While repressing his growing desire to see what was beyond Highbury and Donwell, Richard had tried his best to do his duties by his father. Then, the year when he was sixteen Larkins took him to visit his uncle in Manchester. Richard's uncle had a friend who was a foreman of a cotton mill. His uncle's friend took Larkins and Richard on a visit to the cotton mill, while Larkins perceived the machines as threats to the English husbandry and the livelihoods of labourers, Richard was captivated by the power of the machines. Steam engines were all he could talk and think of after his return from Manchester."

"He must have found it difficult to abide by his duty as a steward apprentice!" surmised Emma.

"Richard _did _endeavour to do his duties. He continued to follow his father's orders and did what he was bidden to do," recounted Mr Knightley. "But if he had disliked farming before he went to Manchester, he positively loathed it after seeing the steam engines."

"How do you know, Mr Knightley?" interposed Emma, looking suspicious. "Did _he _have the audacity to display his contempt so openly?"

"No, Emma," Mr Knightley succeeded quickly, unwilling for Emma to leap into conclusion. "Richard went on about his duties the way he had been, I had no notion of his disinterest in farming until four years later when he told me of it before he left Donwell!"

"So he _had_ hidden his intention to leave his father all this time!" declared the fifteen-year-old, ardently. "It must have been _shocking _for you to see Richard leaving Mr Larkins!"

"Emma, I know it sounded like the faults were all on Richard's side, but you must hear the whole of it before making a judgement," the gentleman implored.

Not that the fifteen-year-old needed to learn more to make her judgement, but Mr Knightley had made his plea so earnestly, and she was keen on finding out Mr Larkins' situation, with a dubious pout, Emma nodded to obey Mr Knightley's entreaty.

After the gentleman thanked the young lady for obliging him, he continued, "I know I should have been taken by surprise when Richard left, but, I think, in the back of my mind I had known it was coming."

"There _had_ been signs?" perked Emma.

"For a while after their return from Manchester, nothing seemed to be amiss between Larkins and Richard, at least not to my youthful ignorance. However, my father told me that he did notice Larkins seemed out of sorts, a gloominess hanging about him nearly constantly, and servants and labourers had complained to him that his bailiff, who, though very serious in appearance, was always just, had become sterner than before."

"Do you think Mr Larkins was out of sorts because Richard had begun going against his wishes?" she asked.

Mr Knightley was thoughtful. "I do not believe Richard was deliberately going against his father's wishes, if that is what you meant. But there were discords between the father and son."

"_Yet_, the discords had not led them to the point of separation?"

"Not yet," he said. "It took four years for their relationship to fall apart. From what Richard told me, and from what I had observed, over the four years, there had been many arguments between Larkins and Richard. Although Richard continued to do his duties, he was feeling discontent with where he was. As a person born with the spirit of an explorer, he dreamed of the world beyond Donwell, farming, and stewardship. He believed machines were the future of England, and he longed to be part of that future."

Albeit Emma had never seen a steam engine in person, she had certainly heard of its power. She could not help but wonder if the bailiff's son was right.

"Do you agree with Richard, Mr Knightley?" she asked, "That machines are the future of our country?"

Mr Knightley smiled at her, "I did not disagree with him then, Emma, and I would not disagree with him now. We live in an age of progressions; inventions have improved human's lives through the ages. Though I would not agree that machines could ever replace the humans who invent them, I do think that, when used wisely, machines could become the way of the future."

With this, the young lady's curiosity heightened, "Have you ever thought of leaving Donwell in pursuit of the future, Mr Knightley?"

Without a second thought, Mr Knightley shook his head. "I would never walk away from my duty, Emma, if that is what you are curious about."

The young lady felt a flood of relief – _Of course Mr Knightley would never banish his duty! He was too honourable to forsake what was given to him by birth!_

Assured, Emma felt safe returning her attention to the matter. "What happened then in those four years?"

"You had said that Richard had hidden his intention to leave his father during all that time?" he saw her nod. "Richard might not have spoken to me about his intention until he decided to leave, but he had been speaking to his father of his aspirations. Do you know why he came to the Abbey before he left Donwell?"

"To bid you good-bye, of course," said the fifteen-year-old a–matter-of-factly. "That was the _least_ he should do!"

Mr Knightley shook his head. "He came to _beg_ my forgiveness for having to let me down, Emma!"

"He _did?"_ exclaimed wide-eyed Emma.

"Richard told me that soon after their return from Manchester he began to express his wishes of working in a cotton mill with steam engines and to seek vocation in engineering to Larkins."

Feeling indignant for Mr Larkins, Emma ejaculated, "Which were _completely_ against his father's hopes and wishes!"

"That is true," Mr Knightley acknowledged that much. Then he looked her in the eyes unwaveringly, "But Richard _is_ entitled to his own hopes and wishes, is he not?"

Unwillingly, Emma went silent.

"Apparently," Mr Knightley went on, "the arguments between Larkins and Richard during those four years were not so much about Larkins' unwillingness to let Richard pursue his aspiration – They were mostly about how unforgivable it would be for any Larkins to be disloyal to the Knightleys. In William Larkins' heart, their family is indebted to my family, and it would be a betrayal to us if his son walked away from what he was always expected to become. From the first time Richard had expressed his wish to seek life outside of Donwell, William Larkins had chastised him severely for being ungrateful to our family, he ordered Richard to cease all thoughts of pursuing a future with the monstrous machines, and demanded him to devote himself to his duty as three generations of Larkins had done prior."

It was not often that Emma felt compel to agree with Mr Knightley's bailiff, but this time, "Mr Larkins was _right!"_ she proclaimed. "Richard _was_ being ungrateful to your family for wishing to banish his duty!"

"Do you _really_ think so, Emma?" Mr Knightley challenged. "Do you think that the Larkins are _truly_ indebted to my family?"

"Your family has been kind to them for _three_ generations, Mr Knightley!" was Emma's answer, "_Of_ _course_ they are indebted to you!"

"But the Larkins had earned _every_ bit of our kindness, Emma," returned the gentleman. "They have been faithful and industrious; there have been no better servants than the Larkins that we Knightleys have _ever_ found."

"So do you mean that Richard should pursue _whatever_ he fancied, Mr Knightley?" retorted the young lady.

"Richard owes Donwell _nothing_, Emma," declared the gentleman.

"But he owes his father _everything_!" returned the fifteen-year-old.

Mr Knightley let out a helpless sigh.

"Over that four year period, many things happened," he pressed on. "Most of Richard's previous responsibilities at the home farm were slowly removed from him, William Larkins no longer wished him to come to the Abbey with him, which I could tell even with my own eyes. Whenever I saw Richard in the fields he could barely raise his eyes at me, Larkins had become a man of even fewer words and stonier expressions. And then near the end of the four years, my father fell ill and passed away…"

The memory of losing his father still pained Mr Knightley, but he brushed it aside and focused on the Larkins.

"According to Richard, he had on countless occasions tried to apply to his father to let him work in a cotton mill for a time to see if he could make something of himself, but each time he was met with fierce objection. Over time, Larkins became more and more furious with him, and as Richard was unwilling to give up his natural desire, his persistence only led to more quarrels between him and his father, exasperating both of them.

"Richard's discontentment with where he was and William Larkins' disappointment in him eventually reached the point of no return – In their one last fierce argument, William Larkins ordered Richard to leave Donwell and never return. He told Richard that he was ashamed of him and no longer wished him to be his son, to be one of the Larkins!"

Emma gasped at the intelligence.

With regrets, Mr Knightley added, "And Richard, discontented, distraught, and heart-hardened, took his father's words and decided it was time to leave Donwell."

"And... Richard came to see you before he left?" conjectured fifteen-year-old.

She received a rueful nod from Mr Knightley.

The story of the Larkins saddened Emma. To a young person, who, though motherless at a tender age, had enjoyed a loving home with her father, sister, and governess, she had had occasional discontentment of her own, but they were quickly forgotten as soon as she was reminded of how much her family loved her and how deeply she loved them. Even though she had known the outcome of the Larkins family tale before Mr Knightley's recount, it was still heart-breaking to hear the father and his son had reached the point of going their separate ways.

She tried to imagine the fierce quarrels between Mr Larkins and Richard, the emotions and fervours mounted during those burning moments, she was beginning to see why things had turned out as they did between the two men. She could picture the severity in the father and the resistance of the son fuelling the anger in them, and, ultimately, led to the demise of the relationship.

She could now see why Mr Knightley seemed to take the side of neither the father nor the son. Yet, because of her love for her father and her deep sense of duty to him, Emma's heart, naturally, went out to Mr Larkins, the father in this tale.

"Mr Knightley," she spoke out of her reflection, "as Richard had spoken to you before he left Donwell, did Mr Larkins speak with you regarding what had happened between him and Richard?"

"The day after Richard left Donwell, Larkins came to see me," supplied the gentleman.

"He must come to tell you how heart-broken he was!" Emma said with certainty.

Looking at her apologetically, "No, Emma," revealed Mr Knightley. "Just like Richard, Larkins came to beg my forgiveness."

"_W-what…" _the young lady looked confused. "Was he not heart-broken over what had happened between him and Richard?"

"I am sure he was, Emma," said he, "but at the time he looked more ashamed than disconsolate."

"You mean…" still disbelieving, "you mean Mr Larkins had _no_ regrets on casting off his own son?" she asked.

"After he apologised for Richard's – in Larkins' own word – _betrayal_, he has been refusing any mention of Richard ever since…"

Mr Knightley felt Emma's disappointment. "The year after he left," he felt he must give her the entire account, "Richard had written to me inquiring after William Larkins. According to Richard, he had written to his father on multiple occasions, but all his letters were returned. He became worried and wrote to me instead. Unfortunately, even when I tried speaking to Larkins about Richard's letters he refused to speak further."

Confusions and disappointments continued to spurt inside Emma.

"But, Mr Larkins _must_ love Richard! _All _fathers love their children!" she said ardently. "Why would he be unwilling to receive Richard's letters?"

"Emma," Mr Knightley looked deeply into her eyes, "I could assure you that Larkins loves Richard very much. But as an honourable man with an immense sense of duty, and _pride_ – His pride, at times, could cause him to lose sight of what truly matters."

Emma regarded the wisdom in what Mr Knightley said, she was beginning to fathom the contrast between the stern facade of William Larkins that chilled her since she was a child and the emotional outburst she stumbled upon that shocked her today.

_Perhaps –_ she finally came to realise –_ he used his stern exterior to hide his injured pride… _

Such revelation had planted an ache in her heart for the old man.

A moment later, "Had Richard ever came back after he left?" she asked.

Mr Knightly shook his head. "Two years after," he said, "Richard wrote to tell me that he had married to the daughter of the cotton mill foreman and decided to settle in Manchester for good."

_"Poor Mr Larkins!" _murmured Emma, to herself, with a long sigh.

"But things must have gotten better between them!" she looked up at Mr Knightley with hope, "Richard was meaning to visit this Christmas, was not he? He _must_ be meaning to make amends with Mr Larkins!"

"Yes, Emma," said Mr Knightley, "I believe there have been signs of improvement in their relationship. Although Larkins avoided any discussions over matters concerning Richard, I have heard that – by gossips amongst his housekeeper and the Donwell staffs that reached my ears – the father and son have started corresponding recently."

"Then Mr Larkins _must_ look forward to see Richard _very_ much!" exclaimed the fifteen-year-old.

Mr Knightley nodded.

"And this Christmas would have been the _first_ time Mr Larkins would see Richard in _ten_… long… years…" she trailed off, feeling the disappointment that Mr Larkins must be feeling.

Emma saw Mr Knightley's helpless nod, her heart sank further for the old man.

For a long moment, she and Mr Knightley stood there silently. They had reached a point of helplessness for William Larkins; all they could do was feeling sorry for him.

Then the clock in the corridor began to chime, the time they must leave for Hartfield had come.

It was difficult for Emma to leave. In her head, she knew she should be rejoicing for the jubilant hours in front of her spending in the warmth and loving company of her family, particularly when Wobble was to begin his new life with her. But in her heart, she felt disconcerted to be the one to receive such blessings when there was an old father surrounded by loneliness because of an unfortunate mistake made ten years ago.

"We had better go, Emma, your father might get anxious at waiting."

Emma heard Mr Knightley reminding her gently.

Slowly, the fifteen-year-old bent to gather Wobble, who had been skipping up and down when they came into the library to greet Mr Knightley, was now settled expectantly at her feet.

As Emma gathering up Wobble, she paused, suddenly.

"Mr Knightley," she looked up at him urgently, "would you take us to Mr Larkins?"

"Why, Emma?" asked the gentleman, surprised by her request. "What about your father and Isabella, and the children? And John? They are all waiting for us."

"Pray, Mr Knightley!" she begged earnestly. "It would not take long, I promise you. Would you take us to Mr Larkins?"

* * *

Having never been on a carriage, Wobble was thrilled by the experience. While his adored mistress had tucked herself at a corner, the rumbustious spaniel began sniffing at every object once he hopped onto the vehicle. The plush cushions, the leather seats, the iron door-handle, the tassels on the edge of the velvet curtains – everything in the small interior were novelty to him. As soon as James set the horses in motion, the inquisitive canine suddenly grew timid, but his loving mistress reassured him by sitting him on her knee, gently stroking the back of his neck to sooth his nerves. Soon the fur ball bounced back up and continued his exploration. Emma must have known Wobble would enjoy the wind blowing at him in the moving vehicle, in spite of the December chill, she opened the carriage window and Wobble immediately went to taste the fresh, cold wind.

While Wobble bustled in the carriage, Mr Knightley, situated in the seat from across, had kept his eyes on his young friend. He could tell she was happy for Wobble to be riding on a moving carriage for the first time – Emma was always as thrilled as her dog when he had learnt a new skill or gained a new experience. Her eyes had fondly followed the spaniel to wherever his nose brought him, and a very tender smile curled up her lips when Wobble placed his head outside the window to taste the wind.

Although she was playful with Wobble, Emma remained wordless through the journey. When Wobble was done, at last, breathing in the cold wind that swept his ears, he settled himself contently on his mistress's knee. As they came near the Larkins' cottage, James began to slow down the horses, Mr Knightley noticed Emma's fingers, that had been holding the wrinkled cravat, tightening the grip on the cloth, and her other hand, which had been caressing Wobble, clasped him even closer to her.

With all his observations, his astuteness, his knowledge of his young friend, Mr Knightley could not discern what was on her mind. He had his speculation, but he did not believe it would come to fruition. Even as he handed her out of the carriage, he was still at a loss for the reason she wanted to come to his bailiff's house.

They were standing at the door of William Larkins' cottage; Mr Knightley had raised his hand for the knocker, when he lifted the ring he turned his eyes to Emma, who was clutching Wobble closely to her, he asked, "Are you sure, Emma?"

Emma looked up at him and nodded.

The gentleman struck the ring on the cast iron plate.

A long moment had passed, no one answered. He turned to Emma and saw her eyes beckoning at him.

He struck the ring against the plate again and waited. He could tell she was anxious for someone to come to the door.

Another long moment had passed, but when they thought no one was at the Larkins' home, they heard the latch on the door rattle, someone was opening the door.

"_Mr Knightley!"_ gasped a very different looking William Larkins.

The usually dignified Donwell bailiff was without his coat, his neck-cloth was discarded, hair unkempt, his shoulders drooping, eyes bleak, and his austere exterior decomposed – the Donwell bailiff looked thoroughly distraught.

Surprised by the unexpected presence of his master, "I… I am… so sorry, sir!" William Larkins was embarrassed. "I sent Mrs Barton home for the holiday… I… I did not hear you knock!"

Mr Knightley smiled graciously, "It does not signify, Larkins," he reassured. "I hope we are not intruding."

"_We?" _repeated the bailiff. It was then that he noticed the young mistress next to his master with her dog.

"_M-Miss Woodhouse!"_ he had barely recovered from his shock when he bowed.

Emma curtsied sincerely and said, "I am sorry for intruding on you, Mr Larkins!"

"Oh, no… no, Miss Woodhouse, Mr Knightley," said the old man, "you are not intruding… I was doing…" he turned to look inside the lonely house, realising, "…_nothing_…" he faltered, disheartened.

Wishing to make his presence known, Wobble let out a warm bark, which had brought some sense back to William Larkins.

"I beg your pardon!" he said hurriedly to his guests, "Please come in!"

Unsure of Emma's intention, Mr Knightley hesitated at the invitation, but he remained silent, willing to follow her lead.

"Mr Larkins," Emma took a step forward, "please forgive us for not coming in," she begged. "Mr Knightley and I are already late for meeting my family at Hartfield, but we are here for an important reason…"

At the young mistress's words, the old bailiff looked even more lost.

The moment she stepped out of the carriage, the fifteen-year-old had made up her mind. She took a silent deep breath to gather her courage and plunged in, "I am here to ask of you a favour!"

"A _favour_?" Surprised, William Larkins was taken aback, and so was Mr Knightley.

Emma nodded with conviction.

"You see, Mr Larkins" she proceeded to explain, "my sister and brother and nephews have all come to Hartfield to celebrate Christmas with us. But unfortunately," moving her gaze to her beloved spaniel, "my father would not approve a dog inside his house, which means I am _not_ to bring Wobble to Hartfield with me!"

As Emma looked up from Wobble to William Larkins, her eyes caught Mr Knightley looking steadily at her. She knew she was not fooling him with her falsehood, and she could only secretly pray that he would not betray her. Though her already pounding heart pounded even heavier, she was determined not to flinch.

"You see, Mr Larkins," the fifteen-year-old continued her deliberation, "it is Christmas, _no_ _one_ should be alone at his house. As I am not allowed to take Wobble to Hartfield, and the Abbey shall be quite empty with nearly all of Mr Knightley's staffs on holidays, Wobble shall be _very_ lonely! I am hoping that if you, Mr Larkins, would be so kind to take Wobble in for the holiday, to keep him company so that he would not be alone…"

With his hand still on the door-handle, William Larkins stood at the threshold looking veritably shocked.

Emma waited anxiously for him to speak, but after some time when he still would not utter a word, "Would you do me this favour, Mr Larkins?" she supplicated again.

Eventually, when William Larkins found his voice, "You… you wish me to look after Wobble… during the holiday?" he asked, as if he could not trust his own ears.

With certainty Emma nodded.

"Would you be so kind, Mr Larkins?" she entreated once more.

As she continued to wait for an answer, Emma held the bailiff's disbelieving eyes with her own pleading eyes.

Ere long, the old man's gloomy countenance was dispelling, his distraught features began to alleviate, and tiny sparkles were brightening his dim eyes.

Gradually, his face broke into a smile that was genuine and unreserved. And when he spoke again, part of his famed dignity resurfaced, his voice no longer unsure, "It would be my _pleasure_, Miss Woodhouse!" it was laced with unspoken gratitude and agog with anticipation.

"Thank you, Mr Larkins!" said the young mistress, with her own grateful smile.

Before Emma handed Wobble to William Larkins, clasping her beloved spaniel closer to her, "Be _good_ to Mr Larkins, my love!" she spoke lovingly into his long ear.

As if understanding perfectly his mistress's heart and his own duty, Wobble nuzzled his flat black nose against Emma's cheek, whimpered affectionately into her ear, and licked her face devotedly before twisting to the direction of William Larkins.

And before relinquishing her beloved Wobble, Emma pressed a deep, tender kiss on him, whispering, "I shall miss you _very_ _much_!"

William Larkins received Wobble in his arms with affections that had never been witnessed by Mr Knightley. The Donwell Master had been standing there listening steadfastly to the exchange between his young friend and bailiff. When he knocked on his bailiff's door, he was still mulling over Emma's intention, but now – it was clear to him that his young friend could be as discerning as she was spoiled!

He thought her way of helping William Larkins very wise – anything more, such as inviting Larkins to Hartfield for Christmas, which at one point in their carriage ride to Larkins' cottage was what he had thought she might do, would have been a blatant charity that he was certain that the proud man would refuse to accept, and anything less would not be able to keep the old father from feeling lonely.

After many 'Thank you' and 'Happy Christmas', curtsies and bows had been duly exchanged by each of them, it was time to depart, but Emma seemed unwilling to remove.

Something of great import was edging at her lips, yet she seemed struggling to withhold it.

But when she could no longer help it,

"Mr Larkins… you… er… I… er…" the young mistress muttered incoherently, blushing crimson and white.

"_Yes_, Miss Woodhouse?" replied the bailiff, eager to be of her service.

Emma chided herself for being tongue-tied.

With scarlet colour arising from throat to cheeks, "Mr Larkins," she endeavoured to speak, "if… er… if you do not wish your house to… smell… er… _indelicate…"_

"_In-de-li-cate?" _repeated William Larkins, bewilderedly.

"Yes, Mr Larkins!" affirmed the young mistress, gulping down a sheepish breath. "If you do not wish your house to smell… er… _indelicate_ – you might consider cooking the turnip tops before feeding them to Wobble!" she finished as quickly as she could.

"Happy Christmas, Mr Larkins!"

As soon as the fifteen-year-old muttered the well wishes, she turned and practically ran for the carriage, leaving the nonplussed William Larkins pondering over her cryptic words, and Mr Knightley, with an endearing smile spread across his face, hastening behind her.

* * *

The journey to Hartfield was quiet, neither Emma nor Mr Knightley spoke. Emma had tucked herself back into the same corner – only now without Wobble, but with Wobble's cravat still in her hands – and Mr Knightley respected her wishes and kept his silence.

When they reached Hartfield they were greeted enthusiastically, if not with great relief, by their family. Mr Woodhouse was assuaged that they had finally arrived. After waiting for quite some time, the anxious father was worried that their carriage had been overturned or fallen into a ditch! Fortunately there were many distractions from Isabella and the children, and John, who had arrived about an hour ago, was instrumental in aiding Isabella to allay her father's agitation with grand larceny cases that he had tried recently. When the footman came in with the news that the Hartfield carriage was approaching the gate, Isabella, the children, and John all came outside to receive them.

Handshakes and warm brotherly greetings were exchanged between the Knightley brothers, while Isabella, with baby John and anxiety in tow, poured solicitudes over Emma, ensuring that accidents or unfortunate events had not befallen on them.

Emma was calming Isabella with reassurances when she felt someone tugging at her gown.

"Aunt Emma…" She looked down and found Henry's small hands on her dress.

Kneeling down to speak to her nephew, "Yes, Henry?" she smiled affectionately into his eyes.

"Where is Wobble?" asked the little boy.

Mr Knightley was speaking with John when he overheard Henry's inquiry; he immediately turned to see Emma's reaction.

Emma continued to smile kindly at their nephew, she was looking at him with tenderness that bespoke of a loving aunt, but the shine in her hazel eyes when she spotted Isabella, the children and John running out to greet them had faded.

"I am sorry, Henry," she spoke gently to the child, "Wobble cannot come."

"Why cannot he come?" crestfallen, little Henry asked.

"Oh, Emma, why cannot Wobble come?" interjected Isabella. She had also noticed that Wobble was nowhere in sight. While her son was concerned about the spaniel, Isabella's concern was mostly for her younger sister.

Emma turned to Isabella. Though it pained her to lay blame on her beloved dog, she began to recite what her mind had rehearsed in the carriage, "Wobble has gotten into a scrape, he played outside and got himself muddy after he was bathed…" then turning back to little Henry, "There was not enough time to bathe him again before we had to leave the Abbey."

"But, my dear Emma, you have been looking forward to bringing him to Hartfield so very much!" exclaimed Isabella. "I am so sorry that Wobble cannot come!"

"It might _just_ as well!"

The voice of her father suddenly cutting into the air shocked the fifteen-year-old.

As soon as the announcement came from the footman, everyone had left the house to come outside. Mr Woodhouse, who seldom left his armchair venturing out of door to greet anyone, was so anxious to see his younger daughter that he decided to follow the others. But as he moved at a much slower pace, he had only just made it to the outside when he heard Emma speaking to Isabella.

"Dogs shall _always_ be dogs, Emma my dear," said Mr Woodhouse, feeling himself very wise. "It is the nature of animals to love mud and dirt. Even our Hartfield pigs which are reared so genteelly cannot be happy without rolling in dirt at least once a day – that was what Serle told me! Your dog… er… Wobble, that is his name, is not it? – You have said that he was clean and well groomed. But no matter how well groomed he is, he shall always get himself into scrapes, because that is his animal nature, there is no denying it. It might just as well to let him stay where he is in case he would bring fleas to the children, or to our house, Emma my dear!"

Her face drained of colour, Emma had risen to stand next to her father, but her eyes remained lowered, staring at her hands, which were presently twisting the cravat that she had been holding since she was at the Abbey.

Very quietly, "You are… right... Papa… Wobble should… always stay at Donwell Abbey… he shall… never… come home with me…" she consented, without meeting her father's eyes.

As the family returned into the house, Mr Knightley was following behind. He saw Emma's back curved into dejection, and he realised what a heavy price she had paid in keeping his bailiff from loneliness this Christmas!

* * *

That night, after the festive feast, everyone had repaired to the drawing room to take pleasure of the family felicities. While listening to his brother regaling more grand larceny cases to Mr Woodhouse, Mr Knightley continued to observe Emma from afar.

Although attentive, she had been quiet throughout dinner. He could tell that her spirit was crushed along with the hope of bringing Wobble home with her, and she was struggling with regrets and disappointment inside of her. And now, after the many begging and entreaties from Henry, she was playing horses with them, bouncing the boys one at a time on her knee until they burst into giggles. He was relieved to see her smiles, though strained – she was endeavouring to keep her spirit from sinking to the deep.

But the gentleman's heart skipped a beat when he heard little Henry calling out Wobble's name when Emma was making the sound of horse's neighs. He watched the smile on her dropped and her imaginary horse came to a sudden halt.

For several moments, Henry kept calling out Wobble's name, and Emma's helpless gaze was frozen in a distance. That instant, Mr Knightley was certain that he felt the pang in her heart in his own. And when little Henry insisted on exalting the name of the spaniel, the gentleman drew a long silent sigh and decided that it was time to remove the child from his aunt.

Yet – as he rose to leave his seat, he was surprised to see that Emma had struck up her horse again. Her gaze was no longer fixed helplessly in a distance – she was transforming in front of his very eyes!

As if a brand new day was dawning from inside of her, the dejection that had been casting over her no longer possessed her, her lips had arched into a determined smile, her eyes shone like a sea of crystals greeting the sun, and she looked at Henry with twinkling eyes and let out a spirited horse's neigh.

"Wobble! Wobble!" cried little Henry with exuberance.

"Henry," returned his fifteen-year-old aunt, "I am not Wobble!" she was smiling playfully, if not a little mischievously, at him.

"I am a _horse!"_ she cried.

Then the young lady sat up taller, straighter, and stronger. "Call me _Pegasus,_" she said with ebullience, proclaiming, "and watch me _soar!"_

As Mr Knightley watched Emma soared over hills and mountains with little Henry, he witnessed the unequalled brilliance in her eyes, as if declaring, unwaveringly, to the Longing and Regret within her that she shall reign and could not be defeated!

It was at that moment that the gentleman said to his young friend, silently, in his heart,

_"Well done, Emma! Well done, indeed!"_

* * *

_**A/N: ** In chapter 51 of the book, when Mr Knightley suggested to Emma that he would move to Hartfield after they married in order to preserve her father's happiness, Emma's immediate response was, "I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine."_

_Her response had me pondered for a long time. Why would Mr Knightley's bailiff pop into her head in such important moment? And why would William Larkins' opinion matter so much in where Mr Knightley should live after they marry? _

_Needless to say, these questions led to the inspiration for this plot._

_In addition to exploring the special bond between Emma and William Larkins, I really wanted to bring out the true natures (flawed yet full of goodness) of my beloved heroine in this plot, and to highlight the amazing effect dogs have on us human. :-)_

_To Woland666 – thank you for your honest review for chapter 47! :-) And to those who feel that there's been too much William Larkins or Wobble – as I noted, it was intentional, but you will definitely see less of them in the remaining two plots of this story._

_Now, to those who were saddened by what happened to Mr Larkins in this plot, please know that the story of the Larkins has a happy ending – The following Christmas Richard and his family did come to Donwell to visit William Larkins, the father and son relationship was then fully mended. Even though Richard and his family continued to live away, they would visit his father every other year during Christmas, and likewise, William Larkins would take extended holidays to visit his son, daughter in law, and grandchildren. :-) _

_And at last, I am very sorry that it took me so long to post the conclusion of this plot. But THANK YOU all for your patience and kindness, and for enduring this very long chapter! :D RL has been so crazy that I don't know when I'll be able to write the remaining two plots, so until we meet again, I wish you happiness and good health! :-)_


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